AMABEL; 


•   .    ,- 

A     FAMILY     HISTORY 


BY 


ELIZABETH    WORMELEY. 


Wait,  aud  Love  himself  will  bring 
The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge  changed  to  fruit 
Of  wisdom.     Wait  :  my  faith  is  large  in  Time 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect  end. 

TENNYSON. 


NEW     YORK: 
GEORGE    P.    PUTNAM    &    Co.,    10    PARK    PLACE. 

1853. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 
G.    P.    PUTNAM    &.    C  o. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


R.  CRAIGHEAD,  Printer  and  Ster«otyi>er 
63   Vesey   Street 


MY  TRIED  AND  TRUE  FRIEND, 

®!)is    JJolumt 
18    AFFECTIONATELY    OFFERED. 

AND, 

IF    IT    POINTS    THE    MORAL 

THAT 

LOVE,    THE   PRINCIPLE,  ' 
INFUSED  INTO  OUR  DUTIES  WORKS  ITS  OWN  REWARD, 

TO  NO  ONE  COULD  IT  BE  MORE  APPROPRIATELY 


• 
O  i  JL-. 


THROUGH  suffering  and  sorrow  thou  hast  past, 

To  show  us  what  a  woman  true  may  be. 

They  have  not  taken  sympathy  from  thee. 

Nor  made  thee  any  other  than  thou  wast ; 

But  like  some  tree  which,  in  a  sudden  blast, 

Sheddeth  those  blossoms  that  weru  weakly  grown, 

Upon  the  air,  but  keepeth  every  one 

Whose  strength  gives  warrant  of  good  fruit  at  last, 

So  thou  hast  shed  some  blooms  of  gaiety, 

But  never  one  of  steadfast  cheerfulness  ; 

Nor  hath  thy  knowledge  of  adversity 

Robbed  thee  of  any  faith  in  happiness, 

But  rather  cleared  thine  inner  eyes  to  see 

How  many  simple  ways  there  are  to  blrss 


JAMES  RUSSEI.  LOWELL. 


gtttrnfrnrtifltt 

.   ' 


Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time. 

Footprinta^M  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  ^^Kfe's  solemn  main, 
Some  forlo^Knd  shipwrecked  broth^i^ 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again.    • 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


"  I  DWELL  amongst  mine  own  people."  Th^  woman  who  can 
echo  these  Words  of  the  Shunamite,  is  blessed  beyond  all  others  of 
her  sex  in  her  position  in  society. 

"  Amongst  mine  own  people :"  a  sound  of  peace  is  in  the  very 
words.  How  much  they  seem  to  promise  of  useflflness,  of  happi- 
ness, of  that  kind  sympathy  and  watchful  consideration  which  are  the 
birthright  of  our  sex.  and  for  the  loss  of  which  no  public  triumphs 
can  bring  u§  •consolation^^ 

Enjoyment  is  not  happiness.  Happiness  has  its  seat  in  the  affec- 
tions. It  is  reserved,  modest,  and  retiring;  it  never  courts  publicity. 
The  triumphs  of  beauty,  wit,  or  even  virtue  have  their  value,  but 
they  cannot  restore  tranquillity  when  lost ;  they  leave  the  heart  as 
lonely  as  they  found  it ;  they  cannot  take  the  place  of  considerate 
friends. 

"  I  dwell  amongst  mine  own  people."  N«  only  the  living,  but  the 
dead  surround  me.  I  raise  my  eyes,  and  fix  them  on  the  portraits 
of  the  lost  and  loved. 

At  yonder  mansion,  half  hidden  by  tall  cedar  trees,  cftell  my 
grandfather  and  grandmother.  Since  the  appointment  of  iny  father 
to  the  South  American  station,  I  have  lived  there  too  ;  but  the  house 
is  no  longer  what  it  used  to  be,  a  very  fairy-land  of  merriment  and 
happiness,  since  the  boys  were  "  cut  adrift,"  as  grandpapa  expresses 
it,  and  my  sweet  sister  Ella  was  married  on  the  same  day  and  hour 
as  our  cousin  Mab. 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

In  a  few  months  there  is  to  be  another  wedding.  Edward  will 
have  come  home  from  the  coast  of  South  America ;  Mab  and  Ella 
with  their  young  and  happy  husbands,  will  return,  though  only  for  a 
season,  to  the  dear  old  Hall ;  relations  of  all  degrees  of  consan- 
guinity will  be  gathered  together  by  invitation ;  grandmamma  will 
hold  high  council  with  her  housekeeper ;  and  grandpapa  will  give 
away  another  blushing  bride^ 

But  although  the  happy  pair  may  seek  for  a  short  period  some 
undisturbed  retreat,  the  bride  will  continue  to  "  dwell  amongst  her 
own  people:"  Edward  has  purchased  this  dear  cottage,  and  has 
promised  to  instal  his  "  wee  bit  wifie "  where  she  loves  best  to 
dwell ;  and  althougii  some  few  articles  of  modern  furniture  are 
already  in  preparation,  he  has  promised  to  disturb  n<^uoe  of  yHB 
dear  pictures,  to  banish  no  one  of  those  stiff-backed,  unco- 
time-hallowed  arm  chairs.  My  dear  kind  Edward !  .  .  .  Shame 
on  thee,  truant  gggMmiill !  I  was  talking  of  my  ancestors. 

Is  it  possible,  MR  myself,  when  I  gaze  upon  their  pictures,  that 


< 


Such  as  these  haj  e  lived  and  died, 


without  leaving  a  single  trace  of  their  being  upon  the  tablets  of 
time? 

They  were  not  heroes,  not  authors,  not  founders  of  noble  houses, 
not  renowned  for  their  discoveries  in  science  or  in  art  They  were 
plain,  every-dav,  matter-of-fact  uieu^ind  women.  But  are  the  pages 
of  the  Annual  Register  to  U-  alone  our  passport  to  immortality? 

I  have  often  been  led  to  reflect,  as  I  sit  surrounded  by  the  portraits 
that  adorn  this  little  drawing-roOTJithat  there  is  a  veil  hung  up  between 
the  Present  and  the  Past^  whose  folds  are  as  impenetrable  as  that  be- 
fore the  Future.  In  the  life  of  every  one  of  us  there  is  an  inner  sanc- 
tuary —  a  Holy  of  Holies  —  which  the  stranger  may  not  enter,  and 
where  the  footfalls  of  friendship  are  never  heard.  It  is  this  veil 
that  I  now  seek  to  draw  aside  from  the  history  of  my  ancestors. 
We  seldom  lift  it  froinjlhe  inner  life  of  living  friend  or  neighbor  ; 
but  the  dead!  —  the  lessons  of  their  experience,  so  far  as  we  can 
gather  them,  are  our  own  inheritance  ;  and  sometimes  it  does 
us  good  to  look  at  life  under  circumstances  in  which  its  "  deep 
things  "  are  revealed  to  us  ;  and  on  the  chart  of  the  experience  of 
others,  we  discern  the  breakers,  the  sunk  rocks,  and  shifting 
sandbanks  that  endanger  our  own  course,  with  the  Pharos  of  Hope 
kindled  for  us  beyond. 

In  one  respect  I  am  ill-fitted  for  the  task  before  me  :  my  life  has 
been  full  of  the  sunshine  of  happiness.  Those  whose  history  I  am 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

to  chronicle  drauk  to  the  very  dregs  the  cup  of  suffering ;  but  my 
path  has  been  so  fringed  by  the  shadow  of  their  sorrows,  that  I  have 
imbibed  a  portion  of  their  spirit,  and  have  grown  capable  of  appre- 
ciating their  struggles  with  adversity. 

Besides  this,  from  my  earliest  childhood  I  have  been  familiar  with  the 
outline  of  this  history :  every  spot  in  our  sweet  valley  is  associated 
with  its  scenes ;  the  old  servants  of  the  family  have  stimulated  my 
curiosity,  and  when  once  interested  in  any  vague  tradition,  I  have 
only  to  coax  grandpapa — a  revealer  of  secrets — a  Zaphnath-Paneah 
— and  I  can  learn  all  upon  the  subject  that  he  knows. 

But  I  have  a  still  more  valuable  source  of  information  for  some 
parts  of  my  narrative :  a  manuscript  that  I  inherit,  in  my  father's 
hand.  Ifjpy  readers  will  have  patience  with  me,  I  will  tell  them  how 
it  was  that  my  father  came  to  record  his  own  autobiography  in 
connexion  with  these  scenes. 

My  parents  spent  their  early  married  life  at^fed,  my  father  having 
received  a  good  naval  appointment  at  one  of  the  ports  of  the  Medi- 
terranean. 

I  was  a  puny,  sickly,  little  thing,  when  we  returned  to  England. 
My  mother's  health  was  thought  precarious ;  and  while  the  doctors 
wished  to  keep  her  in  London  for  advice,  they  strongly  recommended 
my  removal  to  the  country. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day's  journey,  my  father  raised  my 
weary  head  from  his  supporting  shoulder,  and  pointed  out  to  me  the 
gable  end  of  my  future  English  home. 

We  swept  up  the  park  avenue,  we  passed  the  four  grand  cedars; 
the  autumn  sun  was  gilding  gloriously  the  Suffolk  hills  beyond. 
The  old  gardeners  rolling  the  smooth  carriage  way  and  sweeping  up 
the  leaves,  stood  aside,  and  raised  their  hats  from  their  white  heads 
as  we  flew  by ;  we  turned  suddenly  into  a  flower  garden,  and  drew 
up  before  the  rose-entwined  high  porch  of  the  hall  door. 

The  family  pajty  had  flown  forth  to  welcome  us.  They  were  all 
in  walking  dresses ;  all  animated,  happy,  and  as  healthful  as  they 
were  gay.  I  clung  closer  to  my  father's  breast,  with  a  feeling  of 
helplessness  and  isolation.  He  clasped  me  in  his  arms  and  sprang 
out  of  the  carriage. 

"  God  bless  you,  Theodosius,''  cried  my  grandfather,  who  stood, 
cane  in  hand,  the  centre  of  a  merry  group  of  children  in  the  door- 
way. 

With  two  bounds  my  father  sprang  up  the  front  steps,  and  laid 
me  gently  in  my  grandmother's  arms. 

Five  children,  besides  myself,  were  in  the  nursery.     Two  were 
1* 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

the  children  of  the  house ;  the  parents  of  two  others  were  at  Singa- 
pore, in  India ;  the  fifth  was  the  daughter  of  aunt  Annie,  the  wife  of 
a  lieutenant-colonel  of  artillery. 

I  hardly  know  why  I  dwell  upon  my  first  introduction  to  this 
family  group,  unless  it  be  because  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  remember 
how,  when  they  had  forced  me  by  prayers,  exhortations,  and  caresses, 
to  go  down  in  my  white  frock,  after  dinner,  to  dessert,  I  was  attracted 
by  a  handsome  boy,  about  sixteen,  dressed  in  midshipman's  uniform, 
who  took  me  on  his  knee  as  soon  as  I  came  in,  and  filled  a  plate  with 
fruit  for  me. 

"  Have  you  been  introduced  all  round,  my  child  ?"  inquired  my 
grandmother. 

"  Yes,  she  has,"  answered  a  sturdy  little  urchin,  "  and,  she  won't 
understand  how  I'm  an  uncle  to  her." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Leo.  Don't  worry  the  poor  child,"  said  the 
midshipman,  "  for  Garter  King  himself,  would  be  puzzled  in  this 
house  to  make  out  our  consanguinity.  We  are  all  cousins.  I  am 
your  cousin  Ned.  Mind, — never  call  me  your  great  uncle  !" 

It  was  in  the  arms  of  this  great  uncle  or  cousin,  that  I  was  carried 
across  the  Park  that  night,  for  as  the  great  house  was  full  of  guests 
I  was  to  sleep  with  my  father,  at  our  new  home — the  Cottage.  My 
father  went  with  us,  we  were  attended  by  old  Maurice  with  a  light,  and 
I  had  been  wrapped  in  shawls  by  the  soft  hands  of  my  grandmother. 

My  father,  on  coming  out  into  the  night,  shook  hands  with  the  old 
butler. 

"  Well,  Maurice,  my  man,"  said  he,  "  so  at  last  you  have  brought 
your  ship  into  port." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,  so  I  have,"  replied  the  old  sailor.  "  I  have  made 
fast  alongside  yonder  craft "  (shaking  his  lantern  towards  the  house 
that  we  were  leaving).  "It  is  as  good  a  berth  as  a  sailor  ought  to 
ask  till  he  makes  sail  for  his  last  v'y'ge !  And  Captain, — I  thought 
so  on  the  night  I  saw  her  first, — that  craft  there  sails  with  the 
figure-head  of  an  angel !" 

When  Ned  and  Maurice  left  us  at  our  cottage,  I  was  consigned 
into  the  hands  of  a  new  maid  and  put  to  bed.  But  when  alone  in  the 
dark  room,  under  a  heavy  canopy  of  damask,  a  horror  of  loneliness 
fell  upon  mo.  In  hysterical  terror,  I  started  out  of  bed,  and  guided 
by  the  light  that  streamed  beneath  a  door,  made  my  way  into  the 
sitting-room.  My  father,  who  was  there  alone,  took  me  in  his  arms, 
folded  his  coat  round  me,  laid  my  head  against  his  breast,  and,  sitting 
down  before  the  hearth,  drew  my  attention  to  a  picture.  It  was  the 
simple  head  of  a  woman,  beautiful,  young,  but  with  the  marks  of 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

early  sorrow  in  the  face.  An  expression  of  woe,  which  fascinated 
rather  than  repelled ;  which  made  you  feel  that  nothing  that  grieved 
you  could  be  too  trivial  for  her  to  sympathize  with,  and  no  sorrow 
so  terrible  but  that  she  might  venture  with  the  right  of  sad  expe- 
rience to  bring  it  balm. 

A  sort  of  holy  peace  stole  into  my  heart,  as  I  gazed  on  the  calm 
eyes  of  the  picture. 

"  Who  is  it  ? — who  is  it,  dear  papa  ?"  I  cried. 

He  answered,  smiling,  with  a  kiss,  "  Old  Maurice  told  us,  dearest, 
who  it  was.  It  is  our  guardian  angel." 

Two  years  ago,  after  my  mother's  death,  when  our  dear  father, 
broken  by  his  grief,  had  applied  for  and  obtained  a  ship  on  the 
South  American  Station,  we  again  returned  together  across  the  Park, 
from  a  family  dinner  at  the  Hall.  Maurice,  the  old  butler,  escorted 
us  with  his  lantern,  and  at  my  side  was  cousin  Ned.  Let  not  the 
reader  think  he  was  really  my  great  uncle,  for  our  marriage  was 
arranged. 

When  Ned  and  Maurice  had  departed,  my  father  sat  down  before 
the  hearth,  and,  having  drawn  a  low  stool  near,  I  placed  myself  at  his 
feet. 

"Father,  have  you  no  last  instructions  for  your  daughter?" 

He  was  gazing  earnestly  at  the  picture. 

"  You  will  fulfil  your  dear  mother's  last  wishes,  and  my  hopes,  if 
you  are  just  like  her." 

"  Father,  you  always  say  like  her — and  now — now  I  know  that  she 
is  perfect,  but  was  she  so  at  my  age  ?  1  have  heard  "  .  .  .  , 

"What?" 

"  Strange  things." 

My  father  rose  up  ;  opened  a  desk  and  took  out  some  papers. 

"  Your  mother  wished  you  to  know  this,"  said  he, — "I  would  that 
every  person  old  and  young  in  England,  knew  this  history,  my  child, 
and  learned  its  lesson.  You  need  it  lees  than  many,  but  there  are 
those  who  cannot  see  their  way  through  life,  and  it  might  leach : 
that  Love — I  do  not  mean  Love  the  Passion,  but  Love  the  Principle 
— infused  into  our  duties,  works  its  own  reward.  There  may  be 
often  the  passion  of  love  without  this  lovingness,  but  alone  it  never 
lasts  long.  People  wonder  sometimes  they  are  not  made  happy  by 
their  duties ;  it  is  because  they  are  performed  from  some  other  motive 
than  love.  And  there  is  another  mistake  that  people  make,  my  child. 
They  ascribe  different  origins  to  this  love ;  but  it  is  self-begetting. 
Nothing  produces  it  in  others'  hearts  but  its  manifestation  in  our 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

own.  We  can  neither  lay  claim  to  it,  command  it,  nor  compel  it.  It 
exists  as  between  man  and  man  independently  of  relationship.  Only 
the  Christian  has,  with  respect  to  it,  a  peculiar  privilege.  He  has  the 
advantage  of  the  initiative.  With  him  it  springs  from  God's  love, 
and  love  to  God  in  him ;  and  it  is  his  privilege  to  call  it  forth  in  the 
hearts  of  others." 

The  papers  were  in  three  parts.  The  first  was  a  manuscript, 
labelled  by  my  father  "  Doctor  GlascocK's  Narrative."  Doctor  G las- 
cock  had  been  Inspector  of  our  hospitals  in  Malta,  and,  in  answer  to 
some  inquiries  made  in  1819.  by  my  father,  wrote  down  his  reminis- 
cences of  Amabel  during  her  early  life,  and  in  the  years  1809-10. 

The  second  manuscript  was  a  long  letter  addressed  by  Amabel, 
herself,  to  Captain  Warner. 

The  third  was  a  narrative  of  my  father's  own  acquaintance  with 
that  lady,  commenced  that  very  night  when  he  first  brought  me 
to  my  English  home. 

The  story  fascinated  me.  I  could  not  forget  my  father's  wish 
"  that  every  person  in  England  knew  this  tale  and  learned  its  lesson." 
Impelled  by  the  interest  I  took  in  what  I  read,  I  passed  many  hours 
in  rewriting  the  history ;  making  extracts  here  and  there  from  my 
authorities ;  but  the  language  and  arrangement  are  my  own. 

A  fourth  part  I  have  supplied  from  my  remembrance,  and  as  I 
have  already  said  from  other  sources. 

It  is  little  the  concern  of  any  reader  why,  after  rewriting  the  story 
solely  to  amuse  myself,  I  have  eventually  been  induced  to  publish  it. 
It  is  given  to  the  world  with  the  full  consent  of  my  own  family.  My 
grandfather  even  ventured  to  suggest,  some  few  days  since,  a  sen- 
tence from  the  Catechism  as  its  appropriate  motto — "  And  do  my 
duty  in  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  may  please  God  to  call  me." 

"  Very  true,  but  not  exactly  appropriate,"  was  my  answer.  "  The 
moral  of  my  tale  is  love.  And  my  father  would  have  told  us  that  the 
cold  round  of  duty,  without  love  to  season  it,  is  very  unsatisfactory 
to  all  parties,  dear  grandpapa." 


PRAWN    MAINLY    FROJI    DR.    GLASCOCK'S   WRITTEN 
NARRATIVE. 

Strong  is  the  life  that  nestles  there, 

But  into  motion  and  delight 
It  may  not  hurst,  till  soft  as  air 

It  feels  Love's  brooding  timely  might. 

Lyra  Innocentium. 


AMABEL;  A  FAMILY  HISTORY. 


PART     I. 

CHAPTER  I.  •'-*' 

English  air ; 

For  there  is  nothing  here 

Which  from  the  outward  to  the  inward  brought, 

Moulded  thy  baby  thought.— TENNYSON. 

"  IT  appears  to  me,"  says  my  father  in  one  portion  of  his  narra- 
tive, "  that  in  our  ordinary  estimate  of  individual  character,  we 
seldom  give  sufficient  weight  to  the  influences  that  have 
formed  it. 

"  A  family  is  established  : — the  opinions  and  character  of 
the  parents  determine  the  nature  of  its  associates,  and  give  it 
its  general  tone.  As  one  by  one  the  children  increase  in  years 
and  understanding,  each  infuses  somewhat  of  his  peculiar 
tastes  and  disposition  into  the  social  circle.  It  has  its  gaieties 
— for  they  are  young ;  its  interests — for  they  are  many ;  its 
sorrows — for  they  come  to  all ;  its  relative  duties ;  its  expe- 
riences ;  its  anniversaries ;  its  sympathies ;  its  fears.  The 
youthful  mind  is  formed  under  these  influences ;  it  is  not 
exposed  to  receive  its  impressions  rudely  from  the  world  with- 
out, but  learns  at  first  to  look  on  all  things  in  a  sort  of  family 
light.  By  degrees  the  permanent  family  character  has  been 
formed ;  aad  it  sends  forth  its  members  each  with  the  family 
impress,  to  take  up  their  positions  in  the  world. 

"  But  who  is  there,  that  looking  round  amongst  his  acquaint- 
ance makes  sufficient  allowance  for  the  nature  of  the  family 
influence  whiph  has  acted  on  each  mind  ?  Who  is  there,  for 
example,  who  when  passing  judgment  upon  the  faults  or  weak- 
nesses of  a  young  and  inexperienced  woman, — beautiful  per- 
•  haps,  and  exposed  to  every  snare  of  vanity ; — enthusiastic,  and 
therefore  open  to  every  temptation  of  an  ill-regulated  fancy — 
will  suffer  the  words  of  condemnation  to  die  unuttered  on  his 


16  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

lips,  and  plead  for  this  young  girl  before  the  many  that  accuse 
her,  that  she  never  knew  the  counsels  of  a  mother  1 

"  A  mother's  love !  It  is  the  aegis  of  her  children.  Who 
can  estimate  its  influence  in  a  family  of  love  ?" 

This  is  not  in  truth  the  moral  of  my  story,  but  these  reflec- 
tions seem  to  have  been  called  forth  from  my  father  by  an 
allusion  to  the  early  years  of  its  heroine,  Amabel  de  Karnac. 

Ygs ;  heroine  I  called  her,  for  like  my  father,  I  have  little 
sympathy  with  those  who  think  that  heroism  went  out  of  date 
together  with  chain  armor. 

She  was  born  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  at  the 
last  place  in  the  world  one  would  have  fixed  on  for  the  produc- 
tion of  a  heroine,  a  low,  close,  miserable  lodging  near  the  gates 
of  Deptford  Dockyard. 

Her  father,  Louis  Marie  Amablo  de  Karnac,  was  a  Viscount 
and  an  emigre, 

The  opening  of  the  Revolution  found  him  in  Paris,  one  of 
those  mere  men  of  day — those  star-spangled  court  danglers 
— who,  caring  for  nothing  but  their  privileges  as  members  of 
an  aristocracy,  passed  into  foreign  countries  on  the  first  signal 
of  popular  insurrection,  intending,  when  all  was  settled,  to 
return  triumphant  from  their  voluntary  exile,  to  reap  the  plea- 
sant fruits  that  other  hands  had  sown,  and  to  exult  over  the 
discomfiture  of  rebellion  and  of  anarchy,  which  men  of  another 
stamp  had  encountered  and  put  down. 

This  was  the  more  disgraceful  in  the  Viscount  because  he 
came  from  Brittany  ;  a  province  which,  up  to  the  time  of  the 
Revolution,  was  full  of  country  gentlemen  living  on  their 
estates  surrounded  by  their  peasantry  ;  unconnected  with  gene- 
ral politics,  or  with  the  intrigues  of  the  court,  to  which,  indeed, 
they  were  traditionally  hostile  since  the  annexation  of  the 
Province,  three  hundred  years  before,  to  the  French  crown. 

The  Viscount  had  the  acquaintance  of  certain  men  of  influ- 
ence in  England,  who,  as  the  French  emigration  increased,  and 
claims  upon  their  patronage  grew  numerous,  provided  for  him, 
by  procuring  him  the  situation  of  teacher  of  French  at  Black- 
heath  in  a  young  ladies'  school ;  probably  considering  that  if 
a  Marquis  could  keep  a  cook's  shop  in  Oxford  street  in  the 
days  of  his  misfortunes,  a  Viscount  might  be  well  content  to 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  it 

drag  the  youthful  intellect  through  Telimaque,  and  the  four 
regular  conjugations  of  French  verbs. 

But  the  situation,  though  not  dishonorable,  was  not  a  lucra- 
tive one,  and  the  Viscount  was  willing  to  exchange  advantages. 
He  took  an  early  opportunity  of  making  love  to  one  of  his 
pupils,  reported  to  possess  a  small  amount  of  private  fortune. 
English  beauty  is  always  attractive  to  a  foreigner,  and  the 
heiress  had  enough  of  it  to  enhance  the  value  of  hec  gold. 
They  eloped  at  the  close  of  a  school  ball,  and  before  the 
alarmed  preceptress  could  convey  intelligence  of  the  event  to 
Miss  Lane's  family,  she  had  united  her  fortunes  to  those  of  the 
Viscount,  and  no  remedy  remained  for  the  evil  done. 

The  event,  so  far  from  improving  the  young  Viscount's  posi- 
tion, deprived  him  of  the  bare  subsistence  he  had  hitherto  en- 
joyed. It  turned  out  that  Miss  Lane's  little  fortune,  till  she 
was  twenty-one,  was  not  in  her  own  power.  Her  father,  willing 
that  she  should  reap  for  a  time  the  fruits  of  her  own  folly, 
refused  to  contribute  to  her  support,  or  to  extend  to  her  his 
forgiveness  ;  the  Viscount  lost  the  countenance  of  his  English 
patrons,  who  were  not  ill  pleased  to  have  an  excuse  for  getting 
rid  of  him ;  no  careful  mother  would  receive  him  as  French 
teacher  in  her  family ;  while  to  complete  their  misfortunes  his 
only  sister  Louise,  who  had  been  receiving  her  education  in  a 
convent  in  Brittany,  barely  escaping  with  life  and  reason  from 
the  destruction  of  her  asylum,  was,  by  the  fidelity  of  one 
of  her  father's  old  retainers,  brought  over  into  England,  to  add 
to  the  number  of  those  who  must  be  fed  from  money  raised 
at  an  enormous  interest  upon  Madame  de  Karnac's  future 
fortune. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  poverty  and  anxiety,  Amabel  de 
Karnac  came  into  the  world.  The  very  necessaries  of  her  situ- 
ation were  procured  for  the  young  mother  by  the  exertions  of 
Louise,  who,  oppressed  by  the  idea  that  she  entailed  a  burden 
on  the  family,  worked  early  and  late  to  meet  her  share  of  the 
expenses,  procuring  a  coarse  and  precarious  employment  from 
a  marine  store,  nearly  opposite  to  their  windows  in  Deptford. 

As  she  went  backwards  and  forwards  to  this  establishment, 
for  the  purpose  of  returning  work  or  of  obtaining  it,  she  was 


18  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

quite  unconscious  that  a  lover's  eyes  were  on  her,  till  one  eve- 
ning, a  few  days  after  the  birth  of  her  brother's  baby,  the 
master  of  the  marine  store  having  invited  her  into  his  back 
parlor,  seized  the  opportunity  of  declaring  his  passion,  and 
of  setting  before  her  a  full  account  of  his  late  pecuniary  suc- 
cesses as  a  government  contractor. 

Poor,  pale  Louise !  As  soon  as  she  understood  him,  she 
broke  away  from  the  rash  store-keeper,  and  covering  her  face 
with  her  little  neat  black  apron,  darted  through  the  shop  to 
the  astonishment  of  customers,  and  never  stopped  till,  in  the 
little  closet  that  she  called  her  chamber,  she  fell  upon  her  knees 
beside  her  bed,  weeping  passionately  and  long.  Her  admirer 
was  not  discouraged  by  this  conduct.  He  gave  her  what  he 
supposed  a  sufficient  time  to  recover  herself,  and  to  explain  all 
that  had  passed  between  them  to  her  brother,  and  then,  eager 
and  impatient,  he  took  up  his  hat  and  went  across  the  street 
to  honor  the  young  Viscount  with  a  call. 

*  The  astonishment  of  de  Karnac  at  his  proposal  was  equal 
to  the  measure  of  his  family  pride ;  but,  by  degrees,  he  saw 
the  thing  more  reasonably.  He  reflected  on  his  own  position, 
and  remembered  that  the  marriage  of  a  female  in  a  foreign 
land  with  a  rich  negotiant  Anglais  would  scarcely  mar  the 
glories  of  his  family  tree. 

I  never  heard  any  one  talk  of  the  character  of  the  Viscount, 
but  he  must  have  been  an  eminently  selfish  man,  although  he 
looks  so  speciously  handsome  in  the  miniature  likeness  now 
hanging  on  the  wall  beside  me,  for,  before  the  store-keeper 
departed  from  his  presence,  he  had  arranged  that  if  the  shop 
were  given  up,  and  a  handsome  marriage  settlement  made 
upon  his  sister,  he  would  use  his  influence  to  bring  her  over  to 
their  views. 

Louise  had  passed  all  her  life  in  the  seclusion  of  her  convent, 
or  in  the  almost  equal  retirement  of  her  father's  lauds  in  Brit- 
tany ;  her  little  fluttering  heart  was  yet  entirely  free,  and  she 
had  always  looked  upon  a  mariage  de  convenance  as  her  natu- 
ral destiny.  Like  all  French  girls,  however,  she  had  trusted  to 
the  affection  of  her  friends  to  make  a  choice  likely  to  be  agree- 
able to  her  ;  yet,  when  her  brother  spoke  to  her  on  the  subject 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  19 

— when  he  laid  before  her  reasons  bearing  less  upon  her  happi- 
ness than  on  his  own,  he  found  her  resigned  and  yielding,  and 
in  less  than  a  fortnight  after  the  proposal,  Louise  de  Karnac, 
the  descendant  of  a  long  line  of  Breton  ancestors,  became  the 
wife  of  the  store-keeper  Sibbes. 

The  next  event  that  happened  in  the  Karnac  family  was 
scarcely  more  of  a  tragedy  than  such  a  wedding.  Poor,  pale 
Louise,  who  every  day  grew  paler,  passed  much  of  her  time  in 
her  late  home,  her  brother's  lodgings,  where,  pressing  to  her 
heart  his  little  baby,  she  at  least  felt  that  her  feelings  and  her 
prejudices  were  not  rudely  ruffled  by  the  bluff,  vulgar  bonhomie 
of  Mr.  Sibbes. 

She  was  thus  employed  one  evening,  when  a  sailor  was  sud- 
denly shown  in,  who  with  such  preparation  as  a  kind,  rough 
nature  could  suggest,  informed  the  ladies  that  the  Viscount  de 
Karnac  had  taken  a  boat  at  the  Tower  Stairs  to  row  down  to 
Deptford ;  that  a  collier  coming  up  the  river  had  run  down  the 
little  wherry ;  that  it  had  turned  over  upon  the  unfortunate 
Viscount,  and  that  before  he  could  be  got  out  of  the  water  he 
was  drowned. 

Though  Madame  do  Karnac  had  ceased  to  love  her  husband, 
though  she  reproached  him  daily  with  having  deceived  her  into 
an  unhappy  marriage,  and  although  at  the  very  moment  when 
the  sad  news  reached  her,  she  was  engaged  in  pouring  a  long 
tale  of  his  delinquencies  into  his  sister's  ear,  she  was  not  the 
less  vehement  in  her  grief,  not  the  less  helpless  as  she  shrieked 
forth  her  lamentation.  Louise  had  her  immediately  removed 
to  her  own  cottage,  and  Mr.  Sibbes  took  on  himself  all  the 
arrangements  for  the  inquest  and  the  funeral.  He  easily  per- 
suaded Madame  de  Karnac,  after  the  first  paroxysm  of  her  des- 
pair was  over,  to  write  to  her  own  family,  and  in  a  few  hours 
her  father  arrived  to  take  charge  of  her.  He  made  no  offer  to 
attend  the  obsequies  of  the  Viscount,  or  to  share  the  funeral 
expenses.  He  only  inquired  after  his  liabilities ;  was  shocked 
and  indignant  at  the  inroads  made  in  the  young  wife's  fortune ; 
and  as  soon  as  possible  departed,  taking  with  him  the  widow 
and  her  little  girl. 

Louise,  as  she  watched  the  departure  of  the  carriage,  burst 


20  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

into  a  passion  of  weeping.  She  felt  that  the  last  tie  that  con- 
nected her  present  existence  with  the  past  had  just  been  severed, 
and  that  henceforward  she  was  to  be  nothing  more  than  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Sibbes.  The  next  intelligence  she  received  of 
Madame  de  Karnac  was  through  the  medium  of  a  newspaper, 
which  reported  her  approaching  marriage  with  a  gallant  naval 
officer. 

Louise  glanced  at  her  own  black  dress,  and  again  wept  long 
and  bitterly.  At  length  a  thought  occurred  to  her ;  Mr.  Sibbes 
had  always  sought  to  gratify  her  wishes ;  what  if  she  should 
entreat  him  to  adopt  her  brother's  orphan  as  their  own !  It 
was  with  an  impatience  she  had  never  felt  before  to  see  her 
husband,  that  she  awaited  his  return.  She  had  full  confidence 
in  the  power  she  had  never  yet  cared  to  exert  over  him,  and 
she  broached  the  subject  eagerly  before  he  had  stepped  across 
the  threshold  of  his  door. 

Her  enthusiasm  had  lost  sight  of  opposition  to  her  wishes, 
and  she  was  both  surprised  and  angry  to  discover  that  her  pro- 
position was  met  by  Mr.  Sibbes  with  coldness.  He  did  not 
approve  of  meddling  with  other  people's  children  ;  he  told  her 
the  Viscount  had  been  much  expense  to  him  already ;  and 
Madame  de  Karnac  he  especially  abhorred. 

"  Say  what  remains  when  hope  is  fled  ? 
She  answered — endless  weeping." 

And  the  character  of  Louise  must  have  resembled  that  of  the 
mother  of  the  Boy  of  Egremont,  for  though  excited  into  energy 
by  the  approach  of  care  or  danger,  since  all  hope  of  ameliorat- 
ing her  condition  had  forsaken  her,  she  had  become  gradually 
almost  weak  in  mind. 

Mr.  Sibbes  was  not  a  man  of  strong  sensibilities ;  he  could 
not  understand  her  sufferings,  but  he  was  made  uncomfortable 
by  tears.  He  arose  early  in  the  morning,  went  down  by  coach 
to  the  country-seat  of  Mr.  Lane,  saw  the  young  widow  in  gay 
half-mourning  listening  to  the  pleasant  nothings  of  Captain 
Talbot,  her  intended  ;  and  after  some  negotiation  struck  a  bar- 
gain with  little  Amabel's  grandfather.  The  terms  of  which 
.  first,  that  the  Sibbeses  should  have  the  entire  chargo  and 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORV.  21 

care  of  the  child.  Secondly,  that  in  consideration  of  the  honor 
thence  devolving  upon  him,  Mr.  Sibbes  should  furnish  little 
Amabel  with  a  handsome  marriage  portion,  or  settle  an  equiva- 
lent upon  her  should  he  die.  A  third  proviso  was  added  by 
the  grandmother ;  that  she  should  not  be  brought  up  in  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion. 

She  was  a  model  of  childish  beauty ;  but  had  she  been 
deformed  and  ugly  Mr.  Sibbes  would  not  have  cared.  He  had 
obtained  her  solely  to  gratify  his  sad  and  sickly  wife,  and  he 
was  more  than  repaid  for  his  diplomacy  and  trouble,  when  as 
the  post-chaise  stopped  before  his  house  Louise  came  forth  to 
meet  them. 

"  Here  is  your  niece,  my  dear  wife,"  he  said,  kindly. 

Louise  extended  her  arms,  but  it  was  to  throw  them  around 
him ;  her  first  kiss  was  for  her  husband,  and  her  second  for  the 
child. 

It  would  have  been  a  pleasant  thing  to  state  that  this  act  of 
considerate  kindness  brought  health  back  to  her  cheek  and 
happiness  to  their  home.  But  it  was  not  so.  Louise's  mental 
and  moral  powers  had  been  irremediably  weakened,  »nd  she 
sank,  by  slow  yet  steady  stages,  into  childish  imbecility.  It  was 
a  happy  imbecility,  however  ;  the  child  became  her  playmate, 
alternately  assuming  the  ascendency  from  her  superior  energy 
of  character,  or  looking  up  to  the  enlarged  physical  powers  of 
her  aunt,  with  respect  and  admiration. 

Often  as  Mr.  Sibbes  must  in  after  years  have  regretted  his 
unwise  ambition  in  his  marriage,  he  never  repented  his  adoption 
of  the  child. 

Though  the  mother  of  Amabel  had  protested,  that  unless 
allowed  to  see  her  often,  she  could  not  part  with  "  her  angel — 
her  sweet  love,"  it  chanced,  that  in  the  excitement  and  bustle 
which  succeeded  her  gay  wedding  with  Capt.  Talbot,  she  found 
little  leisure  or  inclination  for  renewing  her  intercourse  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sibbes ;  and  an  occasi9nal  note  or  message  of 
inquiry,  left  by  her  gaudy  footman  at  the  little  house  in  Dept- 
ford,  alone  proved  to  her  late  husband's  relations  that  she  had 
not  yet  forgotten  his  child. 

When,  however,  she  was  established  in  a  country  house, 


22  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

after  her  third  London  season,  and  had  begun  to  think 
of  demanding  a  visit  from  her  little  daughter,  she  received 
notice  of  the  intended  removal  of  the  family  to  Malta.  Mr. 
Sibbes  had  made  large  speculations  as  a  Levant  merchant ;  his 
wife's  health  required  a  milder  air ;  and,  with  lurking  irony, 
the  ex-dealer  in  marine  stores  ventured  to  hope,  that  Lady 
Karnac  (she  chose  to  be  called  thus,  though  the  wife  of  Captain 
Talbot)  would  not  object  to  so  wide  a  separation  from  her  little 
girl.  This  letter  lay  unanswered  till  Mr.  Sibbes  and  his  party 
had  left  England :  and  from  that  time,  Amabel's  communica- 
tions with  her  mother  were  very  "  few  and  far  between." 

Like  a  garden  flower,  sown  by  chance  in  the  corner  of  a 
field,  which,  beautiful  in  wild  luxuriance,  excites  regret  that  it 
has  not  been  cultivated  and  trained ;  so,  Bella  Karnac  (as  it 
•was  usual  to  call  her)  continued  to  grow  up  in  Malta,  a  very 
different  person  from  the  proper  model  of  lady-like  deportment 
which  every  careful  mother  sets  before  her  child. 

There  is  this  important  difference  between  our  moral  and 
intellectual  faculties.  "The  former,"  says  a  great  Review, 
(which,  my  father  u^l  to  observe,  sounds  like  a  "  lead  line," 
the  spirit  of  our  times),  "  cannot  be  accustomed  to  discipline 
too  early,  that  they  may  receive  their  bent  in  time  ;  but  there 
is  danger  of  weakening  or  disturbing  the  intellectual  powers, 
if  we  interfere  too  soon  with  their  free  growth."  Bella's  moral 
training  came  from  the  circumstances  of  her  position.  Hers 
was  no  artificial  nursery  and  school-room  existence,  requiring 
artificial  checks,  excitements,  and  emulations  ;  she  was  at  once 
thrown  upon  all  the  realities,  and  assumed  some  of  the  respon- 
sibilities, of  actual  life.  Her  faults  brought  their  own  punish- 
ment ;  the  angles  of  her  disposition  were  forced  to  accommo- 
date themselves  to  circumstances.  All  this,  which  would  have 
led  to  artifice  and  cunning  had  she  been  struggling  for  freedom 
in  an  artificial  state  of  society,  made  her  fearless,  light-hearted, 
and  trustful,  in  her  actual  position. 

Her  aunt  was  weak  in  health,  as  we  have  seen,  and  still 
more  weak  in  mind ;  whilst  Mr.  Sibbes,  who  was  engaged  in 
business  and  often  absent  on  long  voyages,  paid  no  more  atten- 
tion to  the' moral  and  intellectual  training  of  his  niece  than  to 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  23 

the  moral  and  intellectual  training  of  her  puppy.  Save  in 
mutual  offices  of  kindness  she  was  perfectly  independent  of 
every  one  around  her,  and  her  heart  was  too  loving  not  to 
strengthen  hourly  this  grateful  tie.  That  she  was  wilful  and 
independent  was  the  worst  that  could  be  said  of  her ;  and  wil- 
fulness  and  independence,  properly  directed,  form,  under  other 
names,  with  other  combinations,  the  elements  of  much  that  is 
noble,  wise,  and  beautiful  in  character. 


CHAPTER  H. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 
Then  nature  said — "  A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown, 
This  maiden  for  my  own  I  take 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own." — WORDSWORTH 

THE  windows  of  the  house,  or  rather  flat,  which  Mr.  Sibbes 
occupied  in  Valetta,  looked  out  upon  the  grass-plat  behind  the 
castle  of  St.  Elmo,  at  that  time  the  place  where  French  prison- 
ers were  confined.  Here  Bella  daily  played  before  the  grate 
through  which  they  were  permitted  to  hold  intercourse  with 
the  townspeople,  who  came  at  certain  hours  to  buy  the  little 
works  they  carved  in  wood  and  bone.  Here  veterans  leaning 
on  the  sill  of  their  barred  window  would  tell  her  endless  stories 
of  la,  belle  France — of  their  battles  and  campaigns.  As  they 
warmed  in  their  recital  they  constantly  forgot  that  a  mere  child 
was  their  listener,  and  would  tell  her  all  that  lay  upon  their 
hearts,  tales  of  their  families,  their  early  loves,  their  homes, 
their  generals,  their  camps  and  comrades,  wrongs  and  hatreds, 
hopes,  and  griefe,  and  fears.  They  looked  upon  little  Amabel 
as  a  French  child  and  a  prisoner.  Even  the  most  republican 
amongst  them  pardoned  her  father's  nobility  and  emigration,  in 
delight  at  the  national  sympathies  she  evinced  towards  the  land 
that  they  had  taught  her  to  reverence  and  to  love. 

When  Amabel  was  seven  years  of  age  there  was  landed  on 


24  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

the  island  a  young  French  midshipman,  taken  prisoner  by  the 
boats  of  a  British  man  of  war  on  the  neighboring  coast  of  Cala- 
bria. The  authorities,  taking  pity  on  the  little  fellow's  youth, 
allowed  him  to  go  at  large  about  the  city.  He  took  at  first  no 
pleasure  in  his  liberty,  but  kept  in  sight  of  his  fellow-prisoners 
in  the  Castle,  walking  silently  and  listlessly  backwards  and  for- 
wards, along  the  edge  of  the  fortifications,  endeavoring  to 
exchange  the  impulses  of  childhood  for  a  stern  and  solemn  sense 
of  his  position.  But  Bella  on  the  third  day  succeeded  in 
attracting  his  attention ;  on  the  fourth  she  ventured  to  offer 
him  confetti ;  on  the  fifth,  they  were  seated  in  an  angle  of  the 
wall  of  the  old  fortress,  busily  engaged  in  playing  wora,  and 
very  soon  they  were  away  together  on  the  wharves,  where  Bella 
made  her  young  companion  known  to  her  friends  the  fishermen. 

All  little  girls  who  play  with  little  boys,  resigning  the  con- 
ventional privileges  of  their  sex,  are  content  to  follow 
admiringly,  and  sometimes  on  bare  sufferance,  the  lead  of  the 
bolder  party.  The  superiority  of  Felix  in  strength  and 
age  and  practical  attainment  was  the  ground  of  little  Amabel's 
excessive  admiration.  Later  in  life  we  want  some  one  to  sym- 
pathize with  us,  in  childhood  we  are  content  with  being  per- 
mitted to  sympathize. 

Bella  brought  her  young  companion  home  to  Aunt  Louise, 
who  melted  into  tears  the  first  time  she  heard  the  accent  with 
which  he  spoke.  He  was  a  compatriot  of  hers — a  Bas-Breton. 
His  father  was  a  wealthy  shipowner  at  Roscoff,  who  had  made 
large  purchases  of  landed  property  during  the  Revolution. 
Amongst  his  acquisitions  was  a  part  of  the  estate  of  the  old 
family  of  De  Karnac;  and  Felix,  not  Amabel,  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  old  Chateau. 

After  a  brief  happiness  of  two  months  came  tidings  of  the 
Peace  of  Amiens.  The  French  prisoners  in  Valetta  were 
ordered  to  be  embarked  for  their  own  home.  Amabel  followed 
her  playmate  to  the  water's  edge,  following  and  weeping  like 
Phaltiel  the  son  of  Laish  in  the  train  of  his  wife  Michal  when 
reclaimed  by  David.  She  crept  up  to  his  side  as  he  stood 
waiting  for  the  boat  on  the  verge  of  the  Marina,  lifting  her 
tearful  face  for  that  last  kiss  which  he,  an  officer  surrounded  by 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  25 

his  men,  was  half  ashamed  to  give.  She  saw  the  boat  push  off 
and  near  the  vessel  which  was  to  carry  back  the  prisoners  to 
their  own  gay  land,  and  as  her  white  sails  lessened  in  the  dis- 
tance poor  little  Bella's  tears  fell  fast.  Nor  was  it  till  six  or 
eight  months  afterwards,  that  her  grief  for  the  loss  of  Felix 
Guiscard  was  dispersed  by  the  acquisition  of  another  friend. 
This  friend  was  Doctor  Glascock;  from  his  pen  came 
almost  all  the  details  I  can  give  of  this  portion  of  our 
story.  He  arrived  in  Malta  as  Inspector  of  the  Hospitals,  imme- 
diately after  the  rupture  of  the  Peace  of  Amiens.  At  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Revolution  he  had  caught  the  epidemic  fever 
of  the  mind ; — the  gospel  according  to  Jean  Jacques  was  his 
religion  ;  and  he  dreamed  under  its  influence,  the  approaching 
overthrow  of  superstition  and  of  tyranny,  and  Utopian  felicity 
for  all  the  human  race. 

Surge  after  surge,  the  rolling  waves  of  public  opinion  con- 
tinued to  advance,  and  bore  him  onward,  until  the  sceptre  of 
Napoleon  was  stretched  over  its  waters  : — the  tide  turned  and 
left  him  deserted  on  the  shore.  He  despaired  thenceforth  of 
liberty,  and  turned  the  bitterness  of  his  bold  irony  against 
human  nature,  which  he  thought  had  disappointed  him.  He 
became  a  misanthrope  because  all  men  were  not  philanthro- 
pists. He  hated  his  fellow-creatures  because  they  wanted 
love! 

At  this  stage  of  his  mental  history  his  friends  procured  him 
his  appointment,  and  Government,  which  in  those  days  had  its 
eyes  on  individuals,  was  nothing  loath  to  exile  one  who  frater- 
nized with  Cartwright  to  a  place  so  loyal  as  the  little  isle  of 
Malta,  where  the  British  population,  naval  and  military,  looked 
upon  a  man  who  read  the  Edinburgh  Review  as  scarcely  capable 
of  loyal  service  to  his  Majesty ;  and  the  Declaration  of  Rights, 
which  the  Doctor  hung  framed  and  glazed  over  his  fire-place, 
as  a  code  of  opinions  only  adapted  to  a  community  of  bandits, 
subversive  alike  of  civilization,  religion,  loyalty,  and  honor. 

On  the  grassy  ground  behind  the  Castle,  Dr.  Glascock 
noticed  Bella  Karnac  the  first  time  that  he  went  into  the  Prison 
Hospital.  She  had  climbed  up  the  rough  wall,  inserting  her 
tiny  fingers  and  her  feet  in  the  interstices  of  the  mortar,  till 

2 


26  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

she  could  hang  in  safety  by  the  iron  bars  of  a  window,  sup- 
ported by  the  arms  of  a  rough  French  soldier.  When  Dr.  Glas- 
cock  came  in  sight  he  let  her  down,  putting  into  her  hand  at 
the  same  time  some  little  article  of  his  own  manufacture.  She 
ran  up  to  the  Doctor,  in  whom  she  hoped  the  trifle  of  her 
friend  would  find  a  purchaser,  but  as  she  caught  the  expression 
of  his  face,  the  little  air  of  confidence  she  had  assumed  vanished, 
and  she  turned  timidly  away. 

"  Humph,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  catching  fleas  and  fevers ; 
pestering  the  public  with  that  trumpery  !  Modern  charity  puts 
a  new  sense  on  the  old  adage.  Sending  its  agents  abroad  to 
pick  its  neighbor's  pocket,  it  enjoys  its  happy  idleness  com- 
fortably at  home." 

But  in  the  course  of  his  professional  visits  he  made  many 
inquiries  about  the  child  amongst  the  English  ladies  of  the  gar- 
rison. In  answer  he  heard  discussed  the  probable  wealth  of 
the  old  merchant  who  was  her  uncle  and  protector,  his  obscure 
origin,  his  rise  in  life,  the  health  and  circumstances  of  his  wife, 
and  the  future  prospects  of  the  little  girl. 

"  My  good  ladies,"  said  the  Doctor  in  his  turn,  "  there  is  no 
melancholy  fact  on  earth  but  has  its  uses.  Miserable  children 
who  grow  up  as  you  describe,  without  the  artificial  restraints 
you  impose  in  education,  serve  to  gauge  the  advantages  your 
daughters  must  enjoy." 

One  lady  told  him  that  as  the  child  spoke  French,  she  had 
been  anxious  to  secure  her  as  a  companion  to  her  daughters, 
and  would  have  been  willing  to  have  her  with  them  in  the 
school-room,  but  her  tastes  were  so  low,  and  she  had  so  large 
an  acquaintance,  which  she  could  not  be  made  to  relinquish, 
amongst  the  prisoners  of  St.  Elmo,  and  the  fishermen  and 
fruitwomen  of  Valetta,  that  to  reclaim  her  was  impossible. 

All  this  jumped  with  the  Doctor's  humor,  and  he  made 
advances  the  next  morning  to  little  Amabel,  on  the  grass  plot 
of  the  Castle.  She  followed  him  about  after  a  short  time,  and 
served  him  as  interpreter.  She  accompanied  him  in  all  his 
walks  and  to  the  houses  of  his  patients,  waiting  for  him  at  the 
doors.  Children  find  out  where  their  company  is  welcome, 
and  a  loving  heart  can  always  accommodate  itself  to  character. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  27 

Little  Bella  rarely  ventured  to  converse  with  her  stern  doctor. 
He  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  political  disappointments  to 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  her  prattle,  but  she  caught  readily  a 
sympathy  with  his  thoughts,  she  felt  he  liked  to  have  her  silent 
near  him,  and  that  sometimes  her  naive  exclamations  could 
disperse  from  his  face  a  gathering  cloud  of  gloom. 

Wherever  they  went,  and  leave  her  where  he  might,  she 
had  friendly  relations  with  the  native  population — a  word,  a 
joke,  a  game  of  play,  a  smile.  All  over  the  island  she  was 
known  and  welcomed.  She  knew  a  blessed  truth,  which  he 
did  not :  that  in  every  human  heart  there  is  sympathy  and 
kindness,  and  trusted  in  these  qualities  which  experience  had 
taught  her  must  be  there. 

And  so  her  life  went  on ;  three  years  passed  in  attendance 
on  her  aunt  and  in  the  constant  companionship  of  the  Doctor. 
She  well  understood  that  which  many  persons  capable  of  self- 
sacrifice  never  discover — that  by  seeking  variety  and  amuse- 
ment in  hours  of  leisure,  she  became  of  double  value  to  her 
invalide  as  a  medium  of  communication  with  the  outward 
world. 

In  1806,  however,  this  existence  was  broken  up.  Mrs. 
Sibbes  was  recommended  a  sea  voyage,  and  Mr.  Sibbes  having 
several  merchant  vessels  in  port  on  their  way  from  the  Levant 
to  England,  his  family  was  embarked  on  board  of  one  of  them 
to  go  with  a  convoy  to  Gibraltar. 

Amabel  was  absent  but  six  months,  yet  when  she  returned 
to  Valetta  her  old  friend  could  scarcely  recognise  her.  She 
left  him  a  mere  child,  she  came  back  to  him  a  woman. 

The  voyage  had  revealed  to  her  another  life.  They  coasted 
along  the  shores  of  Africa,  watching  the  palm-clad  mountain 
ridges  blending  with  the  sky.  A  gentleman  on  board  the 
vessel  pointed  out  to  the  inquiring  Amabel,  the  site  of  the  sub- 
merged city — Dido's  Carthage — the  Carthage  of  the  ^Eneid. 
He  held  a  copy  of  \7irgil  in  his  hand,  and  was  endeavoring  to 
identify  the  poet's  descriptions.  He  had  not  before  taken  much 
notice  of  his  little  fellow-passenger,  but  now,  in  answer  to  her 
eager  questions,  and  moved  by  an  impulse  in  search  of  sympa- 
thy, he  volunteered  to  translate  to  her  a  book  of  the  JEneid. 


28  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

It  was  that  which  records  the  departure  of  JEneas,  and  the 
self-immolation  of  his  victim  on  her  lofty  funeral  pile.  "  It  is 
not  the  finest  in  the  poem,"  said  the  stranger;  "  I  prefer  the 
description  of  the  sack  of  Troy." 

"  Oh  !  that  I  could  read  it  all !"  cried  Amabel. 

"  You  can — in  Dryden's  Virgil." 

"  I  cannot  get  the  book,"  she  answered,  with  a  voice  so 
melancholy,  that  it  awakened  at  once  the  mirth  and  the  com- 
passion of  the  stranger. 

"  Shall  I  send  you  one  from  England  ?" 

"  God  bless  you  ! — God  reward  you  !"  sprang  to  the  lips  of 
Amabel ;  and  if  she  repressed  the  exclamation,  it  was  not 
because  she  thought  it  ill-suited  to  the  obligation. 

There  is  a  species  of  enthusiasm  of  this  nature  which  is  not 
unusual,  even  in  very  sober  minds.  •  It  occurs  when  a  portion 
of  beautiful  poetry  has  been  read  or  heard,  the  remainder  of 
which  is  unattainable.  The  remembrance  of  the  broken  plea- 
sure dwells  upon  the  mind ;  the  melody  of  the  verses — the 
interest  of  the  story — haunts  us  in  the  daytime,  and  comes 
back  to  us  in  dreams  ;  we  brood  over  it ;  we  cherish  it,  and  we 
feel  as  if  a  part  of  our  very  being  was  wanting,  till  the  missing 
portion  is  restored. 

All  the  interest  of  Bella's  trip  was  swallowed  up  in  an 
intense  desire  to  possess  the  promised  Virgil.  The  chances  of 
war  were  various, — it  may  have  been  lost  upon  its  passage,  or 
the  promise  forgotten — it  never  arrived. 

But  Bella  was  never  long  under  the  influence  of  discourage- 
ment. "  If  I  cannot  have  what  I  want,  I  will  use  what  I  can," 
was,  throughout  life,  (with  one  sad  interval)  her  watchword. 
Her  resolution  was  taken.  An  hour  after  their  re-establishment 
in  their  house  in  Valetta,  she  had  slipped  away  unobserved 
from  her  uncle  and  the  doctor,  and  when  the  latter  at  midnight 
entered  his  own  study,  he  found  her  seated  there,  with  his  old 
Virgil  and  a  Latin  dictionary,  too  much  absorbed  to  have  taken 
note  of  time. 

Then  first  came  to  him  the  idea  of  educating  her.  Then  it 
first  struck  him,  that,  though  a  woman  might  never  be  remark- 
able as  a  Latin  scholar,  though  she  might  not  wring  her  brain 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  29 

for  nonsense  verses,  or  pass  a  creditable  examination  in  the 
Eton  grammar,  she  might  become  mistress  of  the  poetry  of 
old. 

The  notion  pleased  him.  He  invited  her  to  come  every 
morning  to  his  quarters ;  and  soon  the  hours  they  devoted  to 
the  study  of  the  poets  and  of  history  became  to  both  the  hap- 
piest of  their  lives. 

Her  enthusiasm  supplied  the  place  of  early  habits  of  study. 
Her  early  responsibilities  had  disciplined  her  mind.  But  if,  in 
these  respects,  she  fell  something  short  of  the  standard  of  pas- 
sive obedience  required  in  a  school,  she  had  at  least  escaped  tho 
evils  of  an  early  over-education.  Her  faculties  were  not 
stunted ; — her  thirst  for  knowledge  never  had  been  satiated- 
With  her,  the  demand  for  information  exceeded  the  supply,  and 
thus  retained  its  price  and  value.  Her  little  capital  of  know- 
ledge was  constantly  employed. 

To  say  that  the  better  part  of  education  is  self-bestowed, 
would  be  an  impertinent  truism ;  but  my  father  was  accus- 
tomed to  go  further,  and  assert  that  all  education  is  of  self, 
and  that  the  mere  acquisition  of  knowledge  and  accomplish- 
ment is  unworthy  such  a  name.  "  Till  knowledge,"  he  observes, 
"  has  become  a  portion  of  our  being — something  upon  which 
we  act — which,  subtracted  from  us,  would  make  us  other  than 
we  are — it  has  not  entered  into  our  education.  A  little  know- 
ledge is  only  dangerous  when  it  lies  crude  and  undigested, 
without  working  its  way  into  the  heart,  out  of  the  head." 

French  and  Italian  she  acquired  naturally — the  former  from 
her  aunt,  the  latter  from  her  intercourse  with  the  better  class 
of  the  Maltese ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  she  became  mistress 
of  two  patois  languages — the  mixed  Arabic  and  Italian  used 
by  the  lower  class  of  the  native  population  of  Valetta,  and  the 
harsh,  inflexile  Breton,  which  was  by  inheritance  her  native 
tongue. 

Her  earliest  pleasure  had  been  to  sit  upon  a  little  footstool, 
gazing  up  into  her  aunt's  pale  face,  whilst,  with  lingering 
enthusiasm,  Louise  talked  to  her  of  Brittany,  or,  in  a  soft,  low 
voice,  sang  ballads,  framed  when  men  wrote  little,  but  reflected 
much,  and  the  experience  of  a  lifetime  was  compressed  into  a 


30  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

song.  Brittany  was,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  the  storehouse  of 
romantic  literature.  The  songs  of  the  Trouvere  and  the  Jon- 
gleur, which  afterwards  degenerated  into  our  nursery  ballads, 
had  their  origin  among  that  people  whose  sober  enthusiasm 
betrays  their  Celtic  origin  ;  and  the  child's  imagination  warmed 
at  the  recital  of  the  adventures  of  the  Breton  hero,  Arthur. 

There  are  distinct  stages  of  mind,  which  mark  the  progress 
of  our  years,  developed  in  different  degrees,  according  to  cir- 
cumstances or  character,  in  every  specimen  of  human  nature. 
The  child's  first  impulse  is,  to  personalize  all  objects  ;  and,  in 
this  state  of  mind,  ideal  things  have,  to  him,  a  reality.  Next 
comes  the  stage  of  youth,  when  real  things  are  idealized ;  and 
the  restless  melancholy  common  to  those  just  entering  life,  has  its 
origin  in  an  unacknowledged  instinctive  conviction  that  the  first 
encounter  with  the  realities  of  life  will  break  in  upon  this  state 
of  feeling,  and  that  the  heart  cannot  repose  itself  in  dreams. 

It  was  Bella's  transition  on  her  return  from  her  Mediterra- 
nean voyage  from  her  first  into  her  second  period  of  mental 
history  which  had  taken  the  doctor  by  surprise.  Cut  off  from 
her  usual  companions,,  occupations,  and  resources,  with  the 
poetry  of  Virgil  yet  ringing  in  her  ears,  she  had  given  herself 
up  during  her  residence  in  Gibraltar  to  a  new  state  of  existence. 
The  pleasures  of  her  infancy  were  renewed  and  now  appre- 
ciated. The  tales  of  her  aunt  became  her  Waverley  Novels — her 
Ariosto — and  far  more.  We  sober  people,  who  can  comment 
on  our  own  enjoyment,  seldom  rest  on  such  enchanted 
ground,  where,  falling  asleep  as  it  were  to  earthly  objects,  the 
dreamer  is  transported  for  a  season  to  the  poet's  fairy  land. 

With  that  egotism  of  early  youth  which  leads  us  to  asso- 
ciate ourselves  personally  with  all  that  interests  us,  she  gave 
life  and  breath  to  the  fancies  that  delighted  her,  and  played  a 
prominent  part  in  her  own  ideal  world.  She  lived  amongst 
these  wild  creations,  she  felt  with  them,  she  imitated  them. 
She  adopted  their  scale  of  virtues,  she  imbibed  a  portion  of 
their  exaggerated  sentiments,  she  adopted  the  country  in  which 
her  fancy  had  located  them,  and  their  very  religion  had  a  pecu- 
liar charm  for  her.  The  only  stipulation  respecting  her  educa- 
tion made  by  Mr.  Lane  when  he  gave  her  up  to  Mr.  Sibbes 


AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   BISTORT.  81 

was,  that  she  should  be  brought  up  a  member  of  the  Church 
of  England ;  but  in  Malta  she  imbibed  a  leaning  towards 
Catholicism  ;  its  poetry  impressed  her  fancy,  and  she  cared  little 
for  its  creed. 

And  it  was  well  for  her  that  she  had  even  such  slight  links 
to  bind  her  by  a  crude  notion  of  loyalty  to  some  form  of 
Christianity  ;  for  the  Doctor,  her  preceptor,  called  himself,  in 
the  disguised  language  of  the  tunes,  a  "  philosopher."  He 
could  point  out  bigotries  and  fallacies  ;  could  make  her  feel  a 
void — a  want,  by  laying  bare  the  insecure  foundations  of  her 
faith  ;  but  there  were  points  on  which  her  warm  young  heart 
distrusted  him ;  she  accepted  a  great  many  of  his  opinions, 
always  in  the  hope  of  seeing  through  them  a  something  never 
there. 

Two  years  thus  passed ;  and  Bella,  now  sixteen,  grew  restless 
and  oppressed  by  the  vagueness,  the  inapplicability  of  her  feel- 
ings. She  had  no  one  into  whose  bosom  she  could  pour  them 
all,  and  learn  by  the  mere  recital  that  they  were  exaggerated 
and  wrong.  Then  was  felt  that  void  which  nature  has  im- 
planted in  a  young  girl's  heart,  to  teach  her,  perhaps,  that  hu- 
man life  is  incomplete  without  the  union  of  two  souls. 

She  was  living  in  the  house  of  Dr.  Glascock.  Mr.  Sibbes 
was  engaged  in  constant  voyages,  and  in  the  melancholy  con- 
dition of  his  wife's  health,  it  seemed  desirable  that  Dr.  Glas- 
cock should  receive  her  as  "  a  nervous  patient,"  with  her  niece 
and  servant  to  occupy  the  first  floor  of  a  house  which  govern- 
ment had  assigned  him  in  that  part  of  Valetta,  called  the 
suburb  Floriana.  The  health  of  Amabel  was  perhaps  less 
strong  than  in  her  earlier  years.  Her  temperament  had  always 
been  of  a  nervous  character,  and  she  was  growing  morbid. 
The  Doctor's  bitter  theories  struck  painfully  upon  her  sensibili- 
ties, and  weakened  the  attachment  she  had  early  conceived  for 
him.  She  had  given  up  her  healthful  intercourse  in  works  of 
charity  and  mutual  kindness  with  the  world  without ;  and 
since  "  the  salt  had  lost  its  savor "  wherewith  were  the  tone 
and  freshness  of  her  mind  to  be  restored  ? 

The  doctor  saw  all  this ;  with  a  sigh  confessed  that  it  was 
suitable  companionship  she  wanted,  and  invited  to  his  house 


32  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

the  daughter  of  an  early  friend  of  his,  a  lady  who  had  just 
come  out  to  Malta,  the  wife  of  a  Captain  Annesley. 

Captain  Annesley  had  an  intimate  friend,  a  Captain  Warner. 
Both  commanded  sister  brigs  on  the  same  station,  both  were 
looking  eagerly  for  post  rank  in  the  service,  both  were  gentle- 
men by  birth,  and  gallant  officers,  and  both  had  entered  into 
the  "  holy  estate,"  though  Captain  Warner  was  a  widower. 
He  had  lost  the  year  before,  a  wife,  whom  he  had  married  when 
only  a  Lieutenant,  who  had  left  him  two  young  children  ;  now 
resident  in  England,  under  the  care  of  their  grandmother. 

The  brig  which  he  commanded,  came  into  Valetta  a  few 
days  after  the  departure  of  Captain  Annesley,  and  one  of 
Captain  Warner's  first  movements  was,  to  pay  his  respects 'to 
the  wife  of  his  friend. 

Dr.  Glascock  having  admitted  Mrs.  Annesley  as  an  inmate 
of  his  family,  had  no  power  to  prevent  the  daily  calls  of  Cap- 
tain Warner.  In  her  society  he  saw  the  doctor's  pupil,  and 
Bella's  beauty  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  sailor-like  suscep- 
tibility, whilst  his  attentions  (the  first  ever  directed  to  herself ) 
produced  all  the  feelings  of  surprise  and  gratification,  which 
that  sort  of  devotion  naturally  calls  forth,  ere  circumstances 
have  compelled  the  recipient  to  weigh  its  worth,  or  to  calculate 
its  probable  conclusion. 

Captain  Warner  was  an  excellent  sailor ;  he  could  fight  his 
ship  with  gallantry,  and  keep  her  in  good  discipline.  He  had 
a  thousand  anecdotes  to  tell,  of  adventures  that  had  befallen  him 
afloat  and  ashore ;  and  told  them  so  effectively,  that  the  doctor 
began  to  fear  lest,  Othello-like,  he  should  work  his  way  into  the 
affections  of  Bella.  With  the  careless  insouciance  of  his  cha- 
racter and  his  profession,  the  Captain,  considering  that  a  mere 
medical  man  had  no  business  to  concern  himself  about  Miss 
Karnac's  affections,  though  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  treat 
the  doctor  in  his  own  house  cavalierly,  plainly  showed  that  he 
came  only  to  visit  the  ladies  of  the  family,  and  that  he  consi- 
dered all  interest  in  himself,  or  his  proceedings,  as  clearly 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  jurisdiction  of  the  doctor. 

Dr.  Glascock,  in  his  turn,  resented  this  by  great  stiffness  of 
deportment  when  they  met ;  by  making  and  promulgating  the 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY.  33 

discovery,  that  the  Captain's  temper  was  imperious  and  exci- 
table ;  and  by  threatening  to  remove  his  family  across  the 
Island,  to  a  country-house  he  had  at  Ramalah,  whither  the 
Captain's  professional  engagements  would  rarely  permit  him  to 
follow.  And  here  it  is  that  the  doctor's  narrative  may  properly 
be  said  to  open.  It  was  sent  in  1819,  with  the  following 
letter  to  my  father. 

"  SIR  : 

"  A  man  of  the  world  knows  always  how  to  draw  consola- 
tion from  the  society  of  objects  worthy  his  affection,  and  to 
console  himself  for  their  removal. 

"  My  knowledge  of  Miss  Amabel  de  Karnac's  early  life  does 
not  enable  me  to  pronounce  any  opinion  upon  her  conduct  or 
her  character  under  circumstances  unfamiliar,  but  I  send,  as 
you  request,  particulars  relative  to  her  early  love  affair,  before 
leaving  Valetta.  I  have  no  personal  objection  to  this  letter 
being  shown  to  Capt.  Warner.  For  this  reason,  I  have  begun 
my  narrative  at  a  point  which  will  enable  him  to  estimate  the 
kind  of  way  in  which  she  then  regarded  him  ;  and  he  may 
learn,  possibly,  to  consider  my  wisdom  was  prophetic,  when  I 
counselled  her  to  avoid  all  connexion  with  a  country,  where 
manners  and  dispositions  not  conventional,  are  misrepresented, 
misinterpreted,  and  misunderstood. 

"  Your  obedient  humble  servant, 

"Tnos.  GLASCOCK,  M.  D. 
"  Government  Inspector  of  Hospitals  at  Valetta." 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Standing  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Maidenhood  and  childhood  fleet. 

Why  thus  pause  in  indecision, 
Whilst  the  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ?— H.  W.  LoxorKLLOw. 

ONE  of  the  places  which  the  great  war  of  this  century  raised 
into  the  highest  military  and  commercial  consequence,  was 
Malta.  In  its  palmy  days,  the  little  island  was  the  great 
emporium  of  British  commerce.  In  1808,  even  the  friendly 
ports  of  Portugal  were  closed  to  English  goods,  and  the  only 
opening  left  for  the  introduction  of  our  manufactures  into 
Europe,  was  through  the  Ottoman  Empire.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances large  numbers  of  English  merchants  emigrated  to 
Malta,  to  maintain  their  trading  communications  with  the 
East ;  the  families  of  naval  and  military  officers  established 
themselves  at  Valetta,  as  a  convenient  residence  in  the  vicinity 
of  their  friends ;  travellers  shut  out  from  continental  tourage, 
were  flocking  eastward,  taking  Malta  on  their  way  : — its  praises 
— or  the  contrary — during  that  'period  have  been  said  or  sung, 
by  Coleridge,  Byron,  and  by  many  other  visitors ;  and  the  lit- 
tle island — notwithstanding  the  denseness  of  its  population,  ten 
times  exceeding  that  of  any  known  corner  of  the  world,  in  its 
average  proportion  ;  the  immensely  high  rental  of  its  land,  or 
rather  rock,  for  almost  every  foot  of  soil  is  artificial ; — was  in 
a  state  of  activity  and  prosperity,  unparalleled  in  its  experi- 
ence ;  though  the  industry  of  its  inhabitants,  and  the  forced 
fertility  of  its  shelving  hill-side  terraces,  have  been  the  theme 
of  classic  song.  No  spot  of  ground  has  ever  had  so  many 
masters,  and  no  portion  of  Europe  has  a  history  so  obscure. 
Phoenicians,  Greeks,  Carthaginians,  Romans,  Vandals,  Huns 
and  Saracens,  Normans,  Emperors  of  Germany,  Kings  of  Arra- 
gon,  Knights  of  Jerusalem,  and  French  and  English  kings. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  35 

have  by  turns  possessed  it ;  and  political  events  seem  lately  to 
have  raised  it  to  higher  consequence  than  ever  as  a  dependency 
on  our  crown. 

"  Under  the  English  rule,"  says  Pico,  writing  before  the  great 
plague  which  desolated  it  in  1813,  "it  was  delightful  to  see 
the  cities  of  the  island,  and  particularly  Valetta,  crowded  to 
excess  with  a  contented  population,  intent  on  a  variety  of 
occupations,  trades,  and  novel  enterprises.  Amidst  the  inces- 
sant hum  of  busy  life,  were  heard  various  idiomss,  accompa- 
nied by  different  national  customs,  by  reason  of  the  many 
foreigners  of  divers  nations  there  congregated  together ;  a  con- 
tinual crowd  of  carts,  asses,  and  porters,  thronged  the  streets 
and  lined  the  harbors ;  ships  were  unlading  merchandise,  and 
others  were  receiving  cargoes ;  at  the  gates  there  was  a  perpe- 
tual jostle  of  busy  comers  and  goers.  And  when  this  general 
activity  of  business  ceased  with  the  close  of  daylight,  at  night 
the  shops,  cafes,  theatres,  and  all  places  of  amusement,  were 
frequented  by  a  gay  and  festive  crowd.  The  patriot  congratu- 
lated himself  on  seeing  every  kind  of  wretchedness  exiled 
from  his  birth-place,  which  had  become  the  great  commercial 
emporium  of  the  European  world ;  the  stranger  enjoyed  its 
hospitality,  and  the  government  reaped  the  fruits  of  its  wise 
provisions  in  the  general  happiness  of  the  population." 

The  presence  of  a  large  naval  force  added  greatly  to  the 
liveliness  of  Valetta.  So  many  English  families  had  settled 
there,  that  officers  on  coming  into  port  looked  forward  to  much 
gaiety,  and  were  in  the  habit  of  returning,  either  at  their  own 
lodgings,  or  on  shipboard,  the  attentions  paid  to  them  on 
shore. 

The  Admiral  of  the  Port,  at  the  time  of  our  history,  deter- 
mined to  do  his  part  in  aid  of  the  general  festivity,  and  issued 
cards  for  an  entertainment  on  board  his  Flag  Ship,  which  some 
young  and  lively  women  of  his  acquaintance  undertook  to  per- 
suade him  must  be  a  Fancy  Ball. 

Though  Amabel  was  unknown  in  the  English  circles  of 
Valetta,  Captain  Warner  had  no  difficulty  in  procuring  her  an 
invitation,  at  the  same  time  that  he  got  one  for  Mrs.  Annealey. 


36  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Doctor,"  said  Bella,  exhibiting  this  note,  "  I  am  grown  up. 
I  want  to  see  the  world.  Giacinta  says  I  ought,  and " 

"And?" 

"  Captain  Warner." 

"  Pooh  !  silly  child — the  world !  Do  you  not  think  the  pri- 
vate study  of  your  private  friends,  who,  in  their  daily  lives,  lay 
bare  their  hearts  before  you,  better  than  looking  on  the  var- 
nished face  of  what  men  call  society  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  till  I  have  tried  both,  Doctor  ?  I 
dare  say  society  is  bad,  but  at  least  when  people  meet,  each 
one  dependent  on  the  rest  for  pleasure,  which  all  seek,  there 
must  be  something  of  the  law  of  love  (nay,  Doctor,  not  '  its 
counterfeit  politeness,  and  not  much  of  that')  amongst  them." 

"  Not  so  ;  men  congregate  in  multitudes  to  make  each 
other  miserable.  Hobbes,  Grotius,  and  Spinosa,  tell  us  right 
that  society  was  first  organized  by  men  for  their  own  advan- 
tage, each  one  hoping  to  win  that  advantage  over  his  fellows 
by  address  or  force." 

"  And  what  account  do  you  make  of  family  affection  ?" 

"  A  thing  you  know  but  in  wild  theory.  You  make  your 
own  bright  notions  of  what  life  should  be,  and  fit  your  facts  to 
suit  your  vague  imagining.  In  'love,'  as  you  call  it,  there 
is  little  of  loving  kindness  as  a  principle,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  I  will  be  loved,  and  I  must  love,"  cried  Bella,  passionately. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  replied  the  cynic.  "  You  will  grow 
like  others,  selfish,  jealous,  and  covetous,  after  your  kind. 
These  things,  instead  of  love,  are  mingled  by  men  even  with 
their  religion.  The  condor  wings  his  flight  to  Chimborazo, 
but  his  nature  brings  him  back  to  the  plain  in  search  of  prey. 
Captain  "Warner,  let  me  hint  to  you,  appreciates  the  value  of 
your  ffold,  your  promised  dowry.  Widowers  are  mostly  on  the 
look-out  for  young  and  trusting  hearts  with  money" 

Bella  smiled.  Had  her  own  mind  been  made  up  as  to  the 
degree  of  liking  that  she  felt  for  the  gay  Captain,  she  would  pro- 
bably have  answered  by  a  perverse  defence  of  her  new  friend  (had 
he  been  nothing  more  to  her),  or  by  some  pettish  observation 
thrown  out  to  irritate  the  Doctor,  had  he  touched  her  heart  thus 
roughly  on  a  tenderer  string.  But  the  conclusion  of  the  whole 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  3Y 

matter  was,  that  the  Doctor  admitting  some  reason  in  the 
reproaches  she  addressed  to  him  on  her  seclusion,  and  still 
more  influenced  on  the  subject  by  his  housekeeper,  gave  his 
consent  reluctantly  to  her  appearance  at  the  party,  coupled 
with  the  astonishing  condition  that  she  should  accept  him  as  her 
body-guard,  over  and  above  the  chapsronaye  of  Mrs.  Annesley. 

Having  small  time  for  preparation,  she  resolved  to  make  her 
appearance  as  a  peasant  girl  of  Brittany,  in  a  dress  some- 
thing like  the  gala  dress  of  the  richer  Bernese  maidens. 

As  hour  after  hour  she  labored  on  this  costume  with  the 
occasional  assistance  of  Mrs.  Annesley,  the  Doctor  would 
make  constant  pretexts  for  coming  into  the  room  that  he  might 
gaze  upon  the  beauty  of  their  young  and  happy  faces,  enhanced 
by  a  contrast  of  character  and  charms. 

Mrs.  Annesley,  scarcely  past  the  age  of  legal  childhood,  was 
an  example  of  that  fair  and  rounded  healthy  English  beauty, 
which  expresses  generally  great  amiability  of  disposition  and 
little  activity  of  mind. 

But  her  companion  !  A  stranger  would  at  once  have  pro- 
nounced her  a  Maltese,  for  her  dress,  all  black,  was  of  the 
fashion  of  the  isle,  yet  an  accurate  observer  would  have 
hesitated  to  assign  that  beautifully  rounded  speaking  face  to 
the  daughter  of  a  people  of  confessedly  African  extraction, 
though  her  hair  was  very  dark  and  her  eyes  of  a  rich  brown 
hue.  At  times  a  shade  of  sadness  quenched  the  sunshine  of 
her  beauty ;  it  was  always  full  of  thought,  the  mirror  of  the 
soul,  but  smiles  and  dimples  were  its  natural  expression.  The 
cares  of  life  had  not  yet  fallen  upon  one  of  the  most  free  and  natu- 
ral of  God's  creatures,  but  her  mind  had  lately  caught  a  vision 
of  existence,  and  she  shrank  shuddering  from  the  realities  of 
life,  when  she  reflected  that  she  too  might  be  called  upon  to 
struggle  and  endure.  With  no  one  to  repress  the  natural 
expression  and  free  expansion  of  her  nature,  she  had  till 
recently  been  infinitely  happy,  though  the  careful  hand  of  dis- 
cipline was  wanting  to  teach  her  in  these  days  of  early 
girlhood,  when  life  was  lavish  of  the  gifts  it  flung  around  her, 
how  to  store  up  the  materials  from  whence  to  fashion  perma- 
nent felicity,  when  the  dark  days  of  her  destiny  should  come, 


38  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY*   HISTORY. 

in  which  she  should  say  of  the  things  that  now  delighted  her, 
"  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them." 

The  child  gathers  flowers  in  the  sunshine,  but  he  weaves  them 
into  garlands  wherewith  he  crowns  himself,  when  sitting  in  the 
shade. 

"  The  best  attainments  are  made  from  inward  impulse,"  says 
the  lamented  Margaret  Fuller,  in  her  Papers  on  Literature  and 
Art ;  "  but  it  does  not  follow  that  outward  discipline  of  any 
liberality  will  impair  grace  or  strength,  and  it  is  impossible  for 
any  mind  fully  or  harmoniously  to  ascertain  its  own  wants,  with- 
out being  made  to  resound  from  some  strong  outward  pressure." 

She  was  but  at  that  age  when  childhood  imperceptibly  is 
merged  in  womanhood ;  that  age  when  a  tender  and  judicious 
mother,  relying  on  effects  already  wrought  by  the  loving  disci- 
pline of  early  days,  will  exert  her  influence  rather  than  her 
authority  ;  when  the  human  soul,  if  gifted  with  any  powers  of 
reflection,  stands  bewildered  with  the  responsibilities  just  open- 
ing before  it ;  when  ceasing  to  live  for  self  we  begin  to  carry 
forth  the  hoarded  love  of  infancy  upon  the  service  of  others ; 
when  human  life  seems  a  dark  problem ;  when  the  spirit,  fear- 
less in  its  inexperience,  sometimes  longs  to  try  its  powers ; 
when  the  philosophic  observer  watches  the  unfolding  of  the 
character,  and  the  parent  and  true  friend  lay  up  before 
the  throne  of  God  their  prayers  in  store  for  the  young  creature, 
whom  they  would  fain  hold  back  a  short  time  longer  from  the 
world  in  which  she  pants  to  share. 

Sixteen  !  the  poet's  sweet  sixteen  !  We  protest  against  the 
bard  as  an  authority.  It  is  the  most  important  era  in  a  young 
girl's  life,  and  to  many,  we  are  certain,  the  least  happy.  She 
struggles  with  her  own  position,  she  finds  life  incomprehensible. 
New  duties  are  rudely  thrust  upon  her.  She  has  to  achieve 
consideration  even  in  the  domestic  circle  ;  she  commits  follies, 
which,  long  wept  over,  will  influence  her  character ;  faults 
which  appear  to  others  and  herself  an  earnest  of  future  error. 
She  is  restless  and  unhappy.  The  period  of  life  (even  with  all 
the  spring-tide  hopes  of  an  opening  destiny  before  her)  that 
a  wise  woman  would  least  willingly  take  back  again,  would 
be  the  poet's  "  sweet  sixteen  !" 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  39 

The  evening  came,  hazy  with  heat.  At  about  six  o'clock 
news  was  brought  to  Mrs.  Annesley  that  her  husband's  ship, 
the  Sea  Gull,  with  a  prize  in  tow,  was  coming  into  the  Great 
Harbor,  and  she  hurried  to  the  water's  edge  to  be  the  first  to 
go  on  board  of  her. 

When  the  hour  came  for  the  departure  of  Bella  and  the 
Doctor,  he  went  into  the  garden  and  called  her. 

"  I  am  ready,  Doctor,"  was  her  answer,  and  her  sweet  head 
parted  the  flowering  shrubs  upon  her  trellised  balcony. 

"  An  angel's  living  portrait,"  he  exclaims,  "  framed  by  the 
leaves  and  flowers !" 

"  Beauty  is  a  great  gift  of  heaven,"  it  is  true,  but  it  is  chiefly 
valuable  because  it  gives,  at  starting,  a  large  advantage  in 
society.  In  the  social  circle  it  can  be  of  no  account,  unless  the 
want  of  the  complacency  it  gives  is  allowed  to  sour  the  dispo- 
sition of  the  plainer  members  of  a  family. 

Beauty  always  becomes  associated  in  idea  with  excellence, 
assert  to  the  contrary  who  may.  And  this  is  the  true  answer 
to  those  foolish  actualists,  who  nowadays  object  to  having  the 
heroes  of  romance  made  handsome  and  the  heroines  all  fair. 
If  their  characters,  noble  or  lovely,  had  been  known  to  the 
reader  in  actual  life  as  well  as  he  learns  to  know  them  in  the 
pages  of  the  novel,  they  would  assuredly  have  seemed  beauti- 
ful to  him.  It  would  be  giving  him  a  false  idea  by  describing 
them  as  unattractive ;  he  must  therefore  be  presented  with  a 
beautiful  idea. 

But  to  return  to  her  as  she  stood  waiting  in  the  Doctor's 
•  study.  The  rattling  cabriolet  swung  upon  two  high  wheels, 
and  weighing  down  behind,  drawn  by  a  lusty  mule,  was  at  the 
door.  He  put  her  in,  and  they  drove  off  along  the  narrow, 
steep,  irregular  street  (swarming  with  population,  and  crowded 
with  knightly  monuments  of  the  chivalric  ages),  which  led  to 
both  of  the  great  harbors  from  the  suburb  Floriana. 

They  crossed  the  Plaza  Britannica,  where  troops  of  English 
red-coats  were  parading,  a  scene  of  mechanical  regularity 
totally  opposed  to  that  presented  in  the  streets,  or  rather  alleys, 
where  ladies  of  all  ranks  sat  en  pleine  air  on  the  flat  roofs,  or 
in  the  flowery  balconies  of  tall  white  houses,  whilst  market- 


40  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

women,  standing  beneath  the  canvas  of  rude  booths,  sold  pro- 
visions to  the  passenger.  Now,  as  an  opening  was  passed, 
they  saw  down  a  "  street  of  stairs,"  the  deep  blue  of  the  harbor, 
dotted  with  white  shipping ;  and  next  they  passed  before  some 
public  building,  the  residence  of  a  proud  "  language"  in  Valetta's 
knightly  days,  built  of  grey  stone,  and  more  remarkable  for 
attention  to  general  symmetry  of  effect  than  for  any  elabora- 
tion of  ornament ;  and  rattling  down  a  rough  steep  hill,  they 
arrived  at  the  Marina. 

The  Doctor  saw  Pietro,  an  acquaintance,  amongst  the  loung- 
ing boatmen,  and  signed  to  him.  He  launched  his  boat  into 
the  water,  and  came  round  to  meet  them  at  the  Nix  Mangare 
stairs.  As  he  did  so  the  gig  of  Captain  Warner's  ship,  the 
Dodo,  touched  the  stairs,  and  Captain  Warner,  springing  on 
shore,  made  his  way  towards  them. 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,"  he  said  to  Dr.  Glascock,  "  to  detain  this 
lady  by  asking  you  to  make  a  little  detour  on  our  way  to  the 
Undaunted.  The  Sea  Gull  has  lost  her  surgeon  in  the  action, 
and  the  French  Captain  of  her  prize  is  badly  wounded.  Cap- 
tain Annesley  presents  his  compliments,  and  would  be  glad  if 
you  would  come  on  board." 

"  To  the  Sea  Gull !" 

There  she  lay,  sail  after  sail  coming  down  with  cool  and 
practised  regularity — her  crew  no  more  in  a  bustle  than  if  she 
had  been  lying  lazily  becalmed  in  the  waters  of  the  Tropics. 

Scarcely  a  word  was  said  until  they  reached  the  vessel : 
before  the  accommodation  chair  could  be  got  ready,  Amabel  had 
followed  the  doctor  up  the  side,  to  the  great  admiration  of  the 
midshipmen,  and,  shading  her  beauty  with  her  large  straw  hat, 
passed  below  into  the  captain's  cabin. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Dr.  Glascock,"  was  his  salutation ;  "  and  you 
too,  Miss  Bella.  You  will  find  my  prisoner  intractable, 
and  I  ventured,  my  good  sir,  to  send  for  you  to  parlez-vous  to 
him.  Persuade  him  to  have  his  wounds  dressed ;  he  won't  listen 
to  my  English,  and  I  think  him  in  rather  a  bad  way,  doctor." 

So  saying,  he  opened  the  door  of  his  own  cabin,  which  had 
been  given  up  considerately  to  the  wounded  French  commander. 
Bella  remained  in  the  cabin,  listening  to  the  doctor's  broken 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  41 

remonstrances  addressed  to  the  sick  Frenchman,  and,  with  a 
woman's  ready  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate,  straining  her  ear 
for  his  voice  in  reply. 

From  girlhood  she  had,  as  we  have  said,  been  at  the  hospital, 
No  one  had  taught  her  that  attendance  on  the  sick  could  be 
unfeminine  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  doctor's  creed  was,  that  a 
woman  was  always  in  her  sphere,  if  she  can  be  of  use  to 
others.  Accustomed  to  be  listened  to,  she  felt  sure  she  could 
persuade  where  all  the  doctor's  arguments  had  not  succeeded. 
She  opened  the  cabin  door,  and  no  sooner  had  she  appeared 
upon  the  threshold,  than  the  young  Frenchman,  with  a  half- 
cry,  rose  from  his  pillow. 

His  face  was  of  death's  yellowish  paleness,  his  long  dark 
hair  thrown  back  from  his  forehead,  matted  with  dried  blood, 
stood  up  around  his  face,  stiffly  and  wildly.  Dark  hair  was  on 
his  lip,  the  soft  fine  growth  of  very  early  manhood,  which,  having 
been  for  some  days  untrimmed  and  neglected,  made  him  look 
even  more  haggard  than  his  paleness.  Yet  still  they  could  dis- 
cover fine  features.  The  fires  of  intellect  were  not  extinguished 
in  his  blood-shot,  glazing  eyes  ;— the  arm  that  lay  so  powerless 
upon  the  coverlet,  had,  a  day  or  two  earlier,  wielded  the  lost 
sword,  now  hanging,  a  trophy  of  success,  in  a  corner  of  the 
captain's  cabin.  Parts  of  his  martial  accoutrements,  spotted 
with  blood,  and  torn  with  rents  of  battle,  lay  scattered  on  the 
bedding. 

"  Speak  to  him,"  said  the  doctor. 

Her  voice  was  choked,  but  her  face  spoke  to  his  heart  with 
the  eloquent  sympathy  of  tears. 

The  prisoner  first  broke  silence  ;  stretching  out  his  hand,  he 
drew  her  towards  him. 

"Etes  vous  Bretonne  ?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  doctor  made  ready  his  instruments,  and  watched  them. 

"  Yes.  Not  Bretonne  by  birth.  I  was  not  born  there ;  but 
my  father  was  from  Brittany." 

The  young  man  gazed  upon  her  fixedly. 

"  Are  you "he  began. 

She  started. 

"  I  am  Felix,"  he  said,  painfully. 


42 


AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 


In  the  years  that  had  elapsed  since  they  last  met,  his  image 
had  faded  in  her  heart ;  yet  not  so  utterly,  but  that  she  spoke 
the  truth  when,  as  he  clasped  her  hand,  she  whispered,  with  a 
blush,  that  her  companion  and  compatriot  had  never  been  for- 
gotten. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  heart  of  the  sufferer  was  stirred 
within  him.  Dr.  Glascock  was  preparing  to  come  forward. 
Amabel  collected  all  her  courage. 

"For  the  sake  of  our  dear  France,"  she  said,  "you  must 
submit,  and  let  us  aid  you." 

With  woman's  sweetest  tact  she  had  found  out  the  vulnera- 
ble point  in  his  affections,  and  had  associated  herself  there. 

*"  No,"  he  replied,  half  fiercely.  "  I  will  not  live  to  pine  over 
the  ruin  of  my  hopes  in  any  English  prison.  France  should 
be  served  only  by  the  fortunate.  Enough,  who  have  not  failed, 
are  left  to  serve  her.  Those  who  fail  should  die." 

She  fell  upon  her  knees  beside  his  cot ;  clasping  his  left  hand 
fast  in  both  her  own,  she  pressed  it  to  her  forehead,  to  her  lips, 
in  an  agony  of  supplication.  The  young  man  looked  at  her 
irresolute.  Something  to  live  for,  in  what  had  seemed  to  him 
his  last  hour,  he  had  found.  Convulsively  the  blood-stained 
hand  she  held  returned  the  pressure  of  her  soft  warm  fingers. 
At  that  moment  the  Doctor  drew  near  and  caught  his  eye.  He 
saw  his  aid  would  no  longer  be  rejected.  Two  balls  were 
extracted,  and  his  wounds  dressed,  whilst  he  lay  without  speak- 
ing, looking  at  Amabel  with  a  fixed  yet  sad  expression.  When 
all  was  over  he  grew  faint;  Bella's  small  hands  parted  his 
matted  hair  upon  his  forehead,  and  applied  restoratives.  Dr- 
Glascock  called  up  the  Captain's  steward,  gave  him  direc- 
tions for  his  attendance  that  night  upon  his  patient,  and  unwil- 
ling to  agitate  him  further  by  the  sight  of  his  companion,  took 
her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  into  the  cabin. 

*'A  highly  improper  thing,"  they  heard  Captain  Warner 
saying  as  they  entered.  But  he  broke  oft'  his  observation  at 
that  word,  and  merely  remarked  to  Amabel,  in  a  tone  of  irrita- 
tion, that  "  they  would  be  confoundedly  late  at  the  Admiral's 
ball." 

"  Can  you  think  that  I  am  going  to  the  ball  after  such  a 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  43 

scene  as  this  ?"she  replied,  surprised,  "  and  in  such  a  dress  ?"  she 
added,  holding  up  her  skirt  stained  with  large  drops  of  blood. 

The  Captain  began  eagerly  to  remonstrate,  assuring  her  that 
this  would  be  the  last  time  he  should  see  her  for  some  months, 
the  Dodo  being  under  sailing  orders. 

Unmoved  by  what  he  said,  she  coldly  wished  him  a  good 
night,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  she  and  Dr.  Glascock  were  seated 
in  their  boat  pulling  for  the  Marina. 

"  You  might  have  gone  on  to  the  ball,"  he  said ;  "  but  please 
yourself.  I  hope  you  will  find  a  woman's  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  that  your  conduct  has  been  exceedingly  disagreeable 
to-night  to  Captain  Warner." 

"  And  what  signifies  Captain  Warner's  displeasure  to  me  ?" 
she  said  impatiently. 

"  Less  than  it  did  this  morning,  I  suspect,"  replied  the 
Doctor. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Who  sows  in  tears  his  spring-tide  years 

Shall  bind  the  golden  sheaves  ; 
Who  scatters  flowers  in  summer  bowers 

Shall  reap  but  the  withered  leaves. 

MRS.  HOWE— South  Boston. 

BELLA,  like  the  Sultaness  Scheherazade,  the  mother  of  Female 
Novelists,  was  roused  "  an  hour  before  day"  by  an  unusual 
bustle,  in  the  midst  of  which  she  could  distinguish  the  voice  of 
Doctor  Glascock,  who  was  scolding  on  the  stairs.  It  was  seldom 
the  custom  of  that  cynic  to  scold  aloud,  still  less  to  swear  out 
roundly.  He  was  doing  both  on  the  present  occasion. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Bella,  opening  her  door  and 
encountering  the  housekeeper. 

"  Signorina"  said  Giacinta,  "  il  Capitano  fyglese  is  bringing 
in  a  sick  Frenchman,  a  young  prisoner.  The  officers'  quarters 
are  all  full  in  the  Hospital,  and  he  has  got  an  order  from  the 
Governor  to  remove  him  here  into  our  spare  chamber.  This 


44  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

house  belongs  to  the  English  government,  and  the  S  iff  nor 
Padrone  had  it  on  condition  that  he  should  give  up  any  of  the 
rooms  when  they  were  wanted  ;  but,  cospetto  !  it  never  happened 
so  before  !"  And  she  went  on  to  complain  to  Amabel  that  there 
being  no  nurses  disengaged  in  the  Hospital  the  Doctor  had 
ordered  her  to  attend  on  the  young  prisoner. 

"  Oh  !  stay,  Giacinta,  stay !  I  can  help  you.  I  am  as  good 
a  nurse  as  you,"  said  Bella,  hurrying  her  toilette. 

"Impossible!"  said  Giacinta.  "The  Doctor's  orders  are 
express,  that  you  shall  not  go  into  his  room  for  fear  of  dis- 
turbing or  exciting  him.  When  the  Signor  Dottore  com- 
mands, bisognio  obbedire" 

Bella  made  a  little  face  of  mutiny  at  this,  an  expression  which 
soon  changed  into  one  of  disappointment,  when  she  found  it 
impossible  to  break  through  the  cold  stern  reserve  of  the  Doctor 
at  the  breakfast-table.  His  general  deportment  and  his  mono- 
syllables did  not  encourage  her  to  ask  him  questions. 

In  vain  she  tried  her  usual  occupations.  There  was  a  change 
that  day  within  herself  which  infected  everything  around ;  and 
yet  its  influences  were  not  unpleasant ;  h«r  restlessness  brought 
with  it  no  vexation  or  remorse.  The  day  before  she  had  been 
unfettered,  free,  thirsting  for  enjoyment ;  looking  on  life  as  a 
dark  problem,  and  her  own  powers  of  every  kind  with  a  strange 
fear  because  they  were  untried.  Her  heart  overflowing  with 
lovingness  which  was  undemanded,  enthusiasms  repressed,  and 
poetry  and  speculations  others  little  understood.  A  more 
timid — a  more  English  nature  might  have  been  repressed  into 
mediocrity,  and  have  retained  nothing  of  all  its  early  promise, 
save  the  seeds  of  morbid  sentiment  to  bear  a  crop  of  eccentri- 
cities, invalid  peevishness,  or  disgust  of  the  world  in  after 
years ;  but  Bella,  while  bewildering  her  young  mind  with  great 
problems,  had  kept  her  heart  fresh  by  contact  with  the  world 
without,  and  waited  for  her  destiny.  Her  hour  had  come. 
The  sun  had  risen  on  her  path,  and  all  her  being  was  about  to 
waken  into  life  under  the  first  influences  of  love. 

All  Malta,  at  midday,  was  taking  its  siesta  ;  the  house  was 
hushed ;  Amabel,  who  never  slept  by  daylight,  sat  in  silent 
reverie  in  her  own  room.  This  midday  hour  was  the  Sabbath 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  45 

of  her  day,  devoted  to  her  studies,  contemplations,  and  the 
communings  of  her  young  spirit  with  itself,  and  with  its  God. 
She  sat  leaning  her  head  against  the  trellis-work,  festooned 
with  a  profusion  of  sweet  flowers,  which  overhung  the  window 
of  her  chamber,  when  she  was  surprised  by  the  sudden  entrance 
of  the  old  housekeeper. 

"C&'£,  Giacinta  r 

"  Signorina,  he  has  come  to  himself;  but  he  is  greatly 
changed.  I  cannot  understand  him  perfectly,  but  he  is  calling 
you  ;  saying  your  name  over  and  over,  and  Mrs.  Annesley  has 
sent  me  here  for  you  ;  but  the  Signor  Dottore  said  so  positively, 
you  were  not  to  see  him,  and ....  I  dare  not  wake  the  Signor 
Dottore" 

A  smile  broke  over  the  face  of  la  Signorina,  so  bright, 
bewitching,  and  persuasive,  that  Giacinta  felt  that  by  such 
another  smile  her  master's  worst  displeasure  might  be  at  once 
subdued. 

"  Cara  Giacinta  !  Certainly  one  must  not  wake  il  Signor 
Dottore.  It  is  an  act  of  humanity.  Let  us  go." 

But,  when  they  reached  the  chamber,  the  prisoner  appeared 
to  have  dropped  off  into  a  sudden  sleep,  and  it  was  not  wise  to 
awaken  him. 

Amabel  found  a  letter  lying  on  the  table,  directed  to  herself, 
but  "Apres  ma  mort "  was  written  in  one  corner. 

She  sat  down  on  the  floor  of  the  ante-chamber.  The  day- 
light waned,  and  the  shadows  of  the  evening  quietly  stole  on, 
and  she  still  sat  with  her  little  white  dog  nestling  in  her  lap, 
leaning  her  head  against  the  door-post,  listening  to  every  sound. 
Giacinta  had  opened  the  door  a  little  way,  and  a  stream  of 
dying  sunlight  lay  flickering  and  narrowing  upon  the  floor. 

As  she  sat  watching  it  in  silence,  her  mind  less  occupied 
with  thoughts  than  with  sensations,  she  remarked  that  it  was 
suddenly  invaded  by  a  dark,  yet  shining  stream,  moving  across 
it  slowly.  The  dog,  too,  stretched  himself,  whined,  sniffed,  and 
darted  into  the  chamber.  She  saw  his  paws  dyed  as  he  went. 
A  dreadful  fear  came  over  her.  She  sprang  forward — touched 
it .  ..."  Maria  Santissima,  help  ! "  she  screamed  to  Giacinta. 
"It  is  blood!" 


46  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

It  was  found  that  the  prisoner  had  quietly  removed  the 
dressings  of  his  wounds,  with  an  intent  to  bleed  to  death  ;  and, 
but  for  the  little  stream  of  blood  which  had  trickled  on  the 
floor,  and  caught  the  eye  of  Amabel,  in  another  half  hour  he 
would  have  been  beyond  their  care.  He  was  not  quite  gone, 
however ;  weak  as  he  was,  his  consciousness  had  not  forsaken 
him  ;  he  pressed  the  hand  of  his  young  nurse  as  she  leaned 
over  him,  and  directed  her  attention,  by  a  feeble  glance,  towards 
the  letter  on  the  table.  Leaving  him  in  abler  hands,  she  turned 
aside,  and  broke  it  open.  Inclosed  was  a  short  letter  to  Ferdi- 
nand, a  brother,  serving  in  Spain,  in  Dupont's  army,  beseeching 
him  to  consider  this  document  as  a  last  will  and  testament,  and 
to  restore  to  the  Viscount  de  Karnac's  daughter,  for  his  sake, 
all  that  part  of  the  Viscount's  Breton  property  which  had 
fallen  by  their  father's  purchase,  and  subsequent  distribution  of 
his  estate,  to  his  (Felix  Guiscard's)  share. 

"  Doctor — Doctor  !  "  cried  Amabel,  shocked  at  the  idea  of 
pecuniarily  profiting  by  the  death  of  her  early  playfellow. 
"  Tell  him  that  he  ought  not  to  do  this.  Tell  him  that  he  will 
not  die.  Tell  him  so — dear  Doctor." 

"  You  had  better  hold  your  tongue,  Miss  Bella,"  the  Doctor 
answered  sternly ;  "  I  will  not  answer  for  his  life  if  you  repeat 
these  scenes." 

"  Oh  !  God  forbid  !  He  must  not  die !  Only  tell  me,  Doc- 
tor, that  he  will  not  die.  Save  him  !  Oh  !  say  one  word  to 
me.  Say  he  will  not  die,  dearest,  dearest  Doctor !  " 

But  Dr.  Glascock  did  not  condescend  to  give  an  answer. 
He  was  again  binding  up  the  wounds  of  his  patient,  now  quite 
incapable  of  resistance  or  exertion ;  and  Amabel  insisting  on 
her  right  to  stay  beside  him,  with  comments,  sotto  voce,  on  the 
insufficiency  of  Giacinta,  was  suffered  to  remain  watching  all 
night  the  wavering  of  the  spark  of  life,  administering  cordials, 
bending  over  him  with  her  sweet  looks  of  interest  and  compas- 
sion, and  praying  for  him  with  an  intensity  of  feeling  which 
took  the  place  of  mere  expression;  whilst  Giacinta  told  her 
beads  in  the  same  cause  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  who  does 
infinitely  "  above  all  that  we  can  either  ask  or  think,"  who  is 
full  of  compassion  and  consolation,  would  never  refuse  to  grant 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  47 

the  letter  of  such  petitions,  did  He  not  feel  that  in  taking  the 
beloved  one,  He  does  all  "  far  better  than  we  know." 

In  this  instance  the  prayer  was  heard,  and  Felix  Guiscard, 
after  days  of  unconsciousness  and  suffering,  gradually  regained 
his  powers.  The  life  that  Amabel  had  saved  was  now  her 
right,  and  she  asserted  it ;  not  that  the  prisoner  was  any  longer 
disposed  to  make  away  with  himself.  Like  Napoleon,  after 
the  abortive  poisoning  at  Fontainbleau  ;  or  Clive,  when  his  sui- 
cidal pistol  had  twice  flashed  in  the  pan ;  he  seemed  sobered  by 
his  attempt,  and  inclined  to  accept  and  make  the  best  of  the 
decreees  of  Destiny. 

The  individual  most  to  be  pitied  in  the  group  was  the  poor 
Doctor. 

He  had  quarrelled  with  Amabel,  who  scarcely  felt  the  cold- 
ness, so  engrossed  was  she  by  her  new  interests  in  Felix. 

Dr.  Glascock  had  insisted  after  the  night  of  her  first  watch- 
ing on  taking  her  with  him  to  the  seclusion  of  his  country 
house  at  Ramalah.  A  somewhat  violent  scene  had  taken 
place  between  them,  in  which  the  Doctor  stretched  impru- 
dently the  bounds  of  his  authority.  Amabel  fortified  herself 
with  the  opinion  of  the  Annesleys,  and  Dr.  Glascock  had  been 
overcome. 

Between  them  now  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed.  Feeling 
that  an  attachment  to  the  young  French  captain  was  inevitable, 
he  thenceforth  kept  aloof,  that  he  might  not  watch  its  progress  ; 
and  as  day  by  day  he  saw  her  more  engrossed  with  her  new 
hopes  and  occupations,  he  drew  back  into  himself,  growing 
more  caustic,  more  cynical,  more  the  enemy  of  the  world. 

Oh  !  the  joy  of  those  first  days  when  Amabel  could  lead 
her  patient  out  into  the  summer  air  at  sunset,  when  she  sat 
by  him  in  the  garden  and  sang  him  Breton  lays,  or  listened  to 
his  descriptions  of  his  father's  home. 

When  women  discuss  together  the  mysteries  of  courtship, 
they  often  remark  that  it  is  a  pity  the  task  of  love-making  has 
not  been  confided  to  them. 

They  understand  the  secret  workings  of  the  heart  so  much 
better  than  the  sex  to  whom  it  is  permitted  to  be  demon- 
strative ;  their  tact  is  so  much  finer — their  attention  is_so  much 


48  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

more  habituated  to  trifles — and  trifles  make  the  sum  of  court- 
ship— that  it  often  seems  a  pity  that  the  exercise  of  these  abilities 
in  the  most  important  passage  of  their  whole  lives  is  denied 
them.  "  Man  carves  for  himself,  woman  is  helped  to  her 
destiny,"  says  a  dear,  dear  friend  of  mine,  the  brilliant  Julia, 
and  the  same  thought  is  gracefully  expressed  in  a  little  Spanish 
poem : 

Alas  !  to  seize  the  moment 

When  heart  inclines  to  heart, 
And  press  a  suit  with  passion, 

Is  not  a  woman's  part. 
If  man  comes  not  to  gather 

The  roses  where  they  stand, 
They  fade  amidst  their  foliage, 

They  cannot  seek  his  hand. 

Here,  however,  was  in  part  exception.  Amabel  held  the 
chief  authority.  Felix  was  helpless,  thrown  upon  her  loving 
care  for  the  recovery  of  his  health,  and  for  his  amusement  in 
convalescence ;  it  was  for  her  to  plan,  devise,  and  bring  about 
all  that  could  make  him  happy.  She  could  give  him  her 
sweetest  smiles  without  a  fear  of  misconstruction  ;  she  could 
dare  to  be  true  in  act  to  her  own  feelings  without  drawing 
upon  herself  the  slanderous  clamor  of  the  strife  of  tongues. 

Captain  Annesley,  before  the  Sea  Gull  left,  made  arrange- 
ments for  his  prisoner's  removal,  on  parole,  to  Citta  Vecchia ; 
whilst  Amabel  accompanied  Dr.  Glascock  to  his  country-house 
at  Ramalah.  But  the  decayed  capital  of  Malta  is  at  no 
formidable  distance  from  the  southern  centre  of  the  island,  and 
Felix  met  her  every  day.  Bella  long  pondered  in  her  heart  the 
memory  of  therf  walks  along  the  rocky  beach ;  their  whis- 
pered words  to  the  deep  sounding  melody  of  the  mysterious 
ocean  ;  the  tales  he  told  of  his  adventurous  life  by  sea  and 
land,  and  of  the  great  Xapoleon  ;  whilst  in  return  she  read  to 
him  her  favorite  authors,  and  shared  with  him  her  inner  life, 
"  those  sacred  things  that  belong  unto  the  soul." 

And  yet  they  were  half  children.  They  threw  pebbles  into 
the  ocean,  they  made  merriment  from  trifles,  they  laughed, 
enjoyed,  and  joked,  rather  than  sentimentalized  or  sighed. 
Felix  scarcely  knew  he  was  in  love,  but  felt  the  pleasures 


AMABEL:    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  49 

of  the  courtship,   and   Amabel  gave  no  account   to  herself 
of  her  sensations. 

In  highest  art  is  the  repose  of  power.  A  love  perfected  has 
also  its  repose.  When  you  can  prattle  to  another  unreservedly 
of  yourself,  without  calculating  even  unconsciously  on  the 
effect  you  are  producing,  be  sure  you  love  with  your  whole 
heart,  and  are  basking  in  the  consciousness  of  a  reciprocity  of 

Bella,  like  most  young  persons  who  have  any  profundity  of 
character,  was  jealous  over  her  deepest  feelings ;  to  talk  of 
herself  was  a  stretch  of  affection  and  of  confidence  that  in 
earlier  days  she  had  rarely  accorded  even  to  the  Doctor.  But 
now  the  passing  mood,  the  flash  of  thought,  the  impulse, 
grave  or  gay,  was  shared  with  Felix. 

Love  listens  first,  then  speaks.  She  had  mounted  above  the 
earlier  stages  of  a  true  devotsd  love,  and  loved  him  as  the 
completion  of  her  being — loved  him  less  for  his  sake  than  her 
own. 

Mrs.  Annesley,  growing  a  little  scandalized  at  the  extent  of 
the  intimacy  which  withdrew  her  young  companion  from  her 
former  friends,  in  writing  to  her  husband,  did  not  fail  to  put 
into  her  letter  an  account  of  what  she  called  "  this  strange 
engagement." 

Belle  would  have  said  she  was  in  Captain  Warner's  interest, 
yet  it  was  not  exactly  so,  for  she  would  not  have  been  unwil- 
ling that  through  her  husband,  Carpt.  Warner  should  learn 
something  to  the  disparagement  of  the  young  lady,  for  whose 
sake,  during  his  late  stay  in  Valetta,  he  had  relaxed  in  the  atten- 
tions he  had  formerly  been  wont  to  pay  to  her. 


' 

% 


50  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  We  wives  of  sailors  only  can  lay  claim  to  any  real  knowledge  of  the  noble  profes- 
lion.  What  natural  object  is  there,  or  can  there  be,"  exclaimed  the  nautical  Dowager, 
in  a  burst  of  professional  enthusiasm,  "  finer  than  a  stately  ship  breasting  the  billows, 
as  I  have  heard  the  Admiral  say  a  thousand  times;  its  taffrail  ploughing  the  main, and 

its  cut-water  gliding  after I  know  notj  piy  dear  Wyllys,  if  I  make  myself 

intelligible  to  you." — RED  ROVEB. 

"June  17. — H.  M.  S.  Dodo  ;  Commander  Leonard  Warner. 
Off  Cape  Passaro;  latitude  36°  33',  longitude  15°  2';  wea- 
ther clear ;  wind  S.  S.  W, ;  light  breezes,  and  making  about 
four  knots,  with  only  the  top  sails  set,'to  keep  in  company  with 
the  convoy.  At  noon  made  out  a  sail  to  the  S.  W.  of  us, 
standing  across  from  the  coast  of  Africa.  Made  signals  to  con- 
voy to  close,  as  she  might  prove  an  enemy. 

"At  4  P.  M.,  made  her  out  as  H.  M.  S.  Sea  Gull,  Captain 
Annesley.  Passed  some  miles  to  the  southward  of  us,  standing 
apparently  on  her  course  for  Malta.  Made  us  a  signal,  '  Mis — 
Malta — Frenchman — engaged — Admiral's  order — '  The  re- 
mainder unintelligible." 

Such  was  the  entry  made  into  his  log  book  about  6  P.  M. 
of  the  same  evening,  by  my  father,  Theodosius  Ord,  midship- 
man on  board  the  Dodo,  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  or  so  before 
my  existence  became  an  unextinguishable  fact  in  the  creation. 

The  weather,  so  summarily  dismissed  as  "  clear "  in  the  offi- 
cial document,  had  been  early  in  the  morning  gloricfusly  beau- 
tiful. 

The  Dodo,  having  charge  of  a  large  convoy  of  merchantmen, 
bound  from  Cadiz  to  Malta,  was  hugging  pretty  closely  the 
Sicilian  shore.  The  undulating  coast,  crowned  by  the  snows  of 
Etna,  was  visible  with  sufficient  distinctness  for  those  on  board 
the  Dodo  to  mark  the  glancing  patches  of  bright  sunlight  on 
the  mountains,  in  contrast  with  the  masses  of  deep  shadow 
lying  between  them  over  the  valleys.  Objects,  however,  unless 
thrown  into  clear  relief  by  gleams  of  the  mellowing  sunliaht 
against  a.  background  of  blue  sky,  were  not  uniformly  dis- 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  51 

tinguishable.  The  water,  deepest  blue,  was  more  than  rippled, 
for  the  wind  was  rising,  and  the  twenty  sail  of  merchantmen, 
scattered  over  an  area  of  two  miles,  according  to  their  respec- 
tive rates  of  sailing,  presented  the  same  contrast  of  glittering 
light  and  massy  shadow  upon  their,  quivering  sails. 

At  a  long  distance  to  the  south-east,  on  the  direct  course  for 
Malta,  a  practised  naufiHfc  eye  might  yet  discern  the  upper 
sails  of  a  far-off  v — _•! — a  glimmering  speck  of  light,  but  dimly 
seen  on  the  extreme  verge  of  the  two  blues  of  the  horizon. 

It  was  H.  M.  Brig  Sea  Gull,  which  had  passed  the  merchant 
fleet  about  two  hours  earlier,  and  it  caught  at  once  the  eye  of 
Captain  "Warner,  of  the  Dodo,  who  had  come  up  on  deck  after 
his  dinner,  at  the  moment  of  the  opening  of  this  portion  of 
our  story. 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  height,  stoutly  yet  trigly  built,  of 
a  make  and  size  well  fitted  for  activity.  He  wore  the  hand- 
some undress  naval  uniform  of  the  good  old  days,  when  panta- 
loons and  coat  pockets  were  yet  unseamed  with  unsailorly 
gold  lace,  and  a  commission  of  taste  at  the  Admiralty  had  not 
patched  the  cuffs  and  collars  of  the  service  with  red  cloth,  like 
the  coats  of  the  two-penny  postmen.  His  forehead,  which  was 
high,  sloped  slightly  back,  and  was  extremely  broad  and  full 
over  the  eyes ;  a  style  of  feature  enhanced  in  beauty  to  the 
utmost  by  the  way  in  which  his  light  hair,  not  exactly  curled 
but  waving,  was  combed  back  from  his  temples — singularly 
calculated  to  convey  an  idea  of  firmness,  nobleness,  and  author- 
ity, and  much  more  often  met  with  fifty  years  ago  than  at  the 
present  day.  His  face,  habitually  expressive  of  easy  enjoyment, 
denoted  that  the  cares  of  this  world  were  strangers  to  his  heart, 
or  else  sat  lightly  on  him;  but  in  moments  of  command  or 
irritation  it  could  assume  the  very  sternest  of  expressions — cold 
and  hard,  softened,  however,  by  his  eyes,  which  were  a  clear, 
bright  blue,  more  sparkling  and  vivacious  than  is  usual  with 
blue  eyes. 

He  took  a  rapid  survey  of  sky,  convoy,  land,  and  ocean,  in 
which  he  was  assisted  liy  his  first  lieutenant,  a  man  much  older 
than  himself,  kept  down  in  his  profession  by  occasional  fits  of 
inebriety,  who,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  jacket 


52  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

and  a  cap  upon  his  head,  awaited,  -with  rather  a  sulky  expres- 
sion of  countenance,  the  remarks  of  his  superior. 

"  Keep  her  head  three  points  more  off  the  land,  Mr.  Grump," 
was  the  first  order  ;  "  there  may  be  wind  to-night,  and  I  had 
rather  get  an  offing." 

"  Confound  those  lumbering  merchantmen,"  remarked  the 
first  lieutenant,  pointing  to  the  t-ternmost  of  the  convoy,  "  there 
are  three  or  four  amongst  t;  .ug  about  like  tubs." 

"Make  the  signal,  Mr.  Grump,  t<  HI  in  for  the  night,  and 
let  that  make-shift  whipper-in^^HBWow  up  those  two  brigs 
yonder.  Here,  Ord !  Where  is  that  young  gentleman  ?  Call 
him  and  let  him  make  the  signal."  The  first  lieutenant  passed 
the  word  for  Mr.  Ord,  who  at  that  moment  was  engaged  in 
making  in  his  log  the  already  quoted  entry ;  and  having  sent 
for  him  observed  gruffly  to  the  Captain,  that,  "  that  lad  would 
'  be  sure  to  make  some  horrible  mistake  some  day.  Always 
confident — no  consideration — he  could  not  show  less  care  or 
act  with  more  precipitation  if  he  had  swallowed  the  signal- 
book." 

"  Mr.  Ord,"  said  the  Captain,  somewhat  sternly,  as  he  came 
upon  the  quarter-deck,  after  this  observation,  "  you  are  certain 
you  were  right  about  that  signal  ?" 

"  I  am,  sir.  What  more  there  was  I  cannot  say ;  the  ship 
dipped.  But  so  far  as  it  goes  I  am  confident  of  accuracy. 
There  are  not  many  pairs  of  eyes  in  the  ship  that  could  have 
made  out  any  signal  at  a  distance  of  so  many  miles." 

"There's  not  a  single  ship  in  His  Majesty's  fleets  in  the 
Mediterranean  that  begins  with  M.  I.  S.,"  put  in  the  first  lieu- 
tenant ;  "  but  plenty  with  M.  I.  N.  Minotaur,  Minorca,  Min- 
strel, Min " 

"  M.  I,  S.,"  repeated  the  Captain,  interrupting  him,  "  you  are 
quite  positive,  Mr.  Ord  ?" 

"  Positive,  indeed,"  muttered  the  first  lieutenant,  as  Theodo- 
sius  reasserted  his  firm  belief  that  he  had  rightly  interpreted  the 
signal.  "  Positive,  indeed.  What  man,  I  ask  you,  in  his  senses 
would  abbreviate  a  ship's  name  in  a  signal  ?  M.  I.  N.  it  must 
have  been,  and  you  mistook  the  second  number.  Cap- 
tain Warner,  sir,  I'd  lay  my  life  the  Minotaur,  the  Min- 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  53 

strel,  or  Minorca,  is  engaged  with  the  enemy  at  this  moment 
somewhere  between  this  and  Malta ;  and  the  Admiral's  order 
is  for  us  to  reinforce  her."  And  Mr.  Grump  concluded  with  an 
angry  glance  and  an  accompanying  gesture  towards  his  junior, 
distinctly  signifying,  "  But  for  you  we  might  have  been  upon 
the  spot  to  share  the  fun  and  prize  money." 

"  Make  the  night  signal  to  the  convoy,"  said  the  Captain ; 
and  soon  the  little  Ik^flBuxie  closing  round  the  Qodo  like 
chickens  snuggling  beneath  their  mother's  wing;  and  lest  some 
hovering  Frenchman  like  a  stealthy  hawk  might  chance  during 
the  night  to  filch  or.'-  of  them  ;uvay,  a  sailor  was  sent  aloft  an 
hour  before  night-fall  to  sweep  the  horizon  with  a  glass,  but 
even  the  Sea  Gull  had  disappeared  and  he  saw  nothing  but 
blue  water  out  to  seaward. 

The  Captain  leaning  over  his  vessel's  side  watched  these  pre- 
parations ;  saw  how  the  night  closed  jealously  over  the  momen- 
tary gleam  of  twilight,  and  remarked  the  shimmering  light  of 
a  full  moon  upon  the  water. 

He  had  put  his  cocked  hat  between  his  knees  as  he  gazed 
over  the  side  of  his  vessel,  and,  as  he  stood  half  leaning  against 
one  of  the  ship's  guns  and  half  against  her  bulwarks,  the  wind 
blew  his  hair  about  his  face,  the  spray  dashed  up  at  intervals 
upon  him,  and  the  Lieutenant,  who  had  set  his  watch,  remarked, 
that  lost  in  thought  he  seemed  indifferent  to  outward  circum- 
stances, and  that  the  expression  of  his  features  was  disturbed. 

The  signal  by  which  his  first  lieutenant  was  disquieted  was 
no  mystery  to  him.     It  had  been  made,  he  knew,  but  for  his 
private  information,  and  with  a  sailor's  quickness  he  had  under-     v , 
stood  it  immediately. 

"  Engaged  ! — engaged,  is  she  ?  Engaged  to  that  French 
prisoner !" 

And  as  memory  in  moments  of  vexation  loves  to  dwell  upon 
the  little  sacrifices  that  have  been  made  in  hope  for  those  who 
have  disappointed  us,  he  called  to  mind  the  various  little  rari- 
ties he  had  collected  to  offer  her  as  gifts,  at  every  port  that  he 
had  touched  at  after  leaving  Malta,  and  remembered  the  cir- 
cumstances of  each  purchase,  and  the  impression  lie  had  hoped 
they  would  produce  on  her. 


54  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

Uncertainty,  and  jealousy,  and  mortification,  and  displeasure, 
were  struggling  with  the  remembrance  of  lier  charms.  So 
simple,  naive,  beautiful,  and  joyous !  What  a  splendid  woman, 
as  Mrs.  Leonard  Warner,  she  would  have  made  !  How  greatly 
she  would  have  graced  his  always  well-kept  table !  How  proud 
he  would  have  been  of  her  !  How  much  his  marriage  would 
have  mortified  all  the  ambitious  spinsters  of  his  neighborhood 
in  England  ! 

He  was  naturally  a  man  who  loved  his  home.  Like  most 
of  those  engaged  in  active  lite,  it  was  pleasant  to  him  to  have 
a  spot  set  apart  to  hold  his  treasures  ;  a  shrine  of  his  own 
rearing,  to  which  he  might  (returning)  bring  large  tributes 
from  his  fame,  his  fortune,  his  hopes,  his  happiness. 

He  had  once  had  such  a  spot,  but  it  was  only  for  a 
brief  interval  in  his  life;  his  household  gods  had  been  both 
suddenly  and  rudely  broken ;  death  had  made  desolate  the 
little  plot  of  happiness  that  he  had  redeemed  from  the  exigen- 
cies of  his  professional  career. 

He  had  married  young ;  a  woman  not  interesting — yet  he 
had  invested  her  with  interest ;  though  merely  domestic,  she 
had  sufficed  for  his  requirements.  She  was  the  portionless 
daughter  of  a  lieutenant  in  the  service ;  but  the  bride  that  he 
now  coveted  had  noble  blood,  and  would  inherit  money.  His 
first  wife  had  given  him,  in  all  things,  his  own  way — was  pale, 
delicate,  and  querulous,  a  sort  of  upper-servant  to  his  children ; 
but  this  was  not  the  idea  he  had  formed  of  his  new  bride. 
She,  he  intended,  should  be  perfectly  domestic,  ministering  in 
every  particular  to  his  comfort,  yet  at  the  same  time  to  his 
vanity. 

He  contemplated  Amabel  with  complacency.  He  thought 
how  he  would  exhibit  her  beauty,  with  pride,  as  his  possession ; 
— and  the  society  of  so  superior  a  being  would  be  of  such 
advantage  to  his  children  !  Katie,  the  elder,  would  grow  up, 
under  her  care,  no  uncouth  country-maiden,  but  would  uncon- 
sciously acquire  grace  and  grow  another  Bella. 

He  had  almost  thought  his  dream  into  reality,  when  an 
angry  whisper,  on  the  other  side  the  deck,  broke  up  his  medi- 
tations. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  55 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  did  mistake  that  signal.  The  Minotaur, 
the  Minstrel,  or  Minorca,  must  be  engaged  out  yonder  with 
some  Frenchman.  Had  you  made  the  thing  out  plain,  we 
might  have  put  the  convoy  into  some  Sicilian  port,  and  gone  in 
search  of  them." 

The  Captain  looked  up  at  the  night,  clear,  starry,  with  the 
wind  rising. 

"  You  may  let  that  matter  rest,  Grump,"  he  said,  passing  his 
first  lieutenant,  who  had  the  early  watch,  on  his  way  to  the 
companion.  u  I  am  satisfied  with  Mr.  Ord  ;  as  signal  midship- 
man, he  has  my  approbat^ff^ 

"  Yes,  always  so.  The  lad  would  do  anything  for  praise. 
He  will  be  guilty  to-morrow  of  some  new  piece  of  inconsideration 
or  absurdity,"  muttered  the  lieutenant,  as  Captain  Warner 
descended  to  his  cabin.  "A  relation  of  the  Captain's !  Enough 
to  serve  him  upon  all  occasions.  Pah !" 

And  Mr.  Grump  balanced  himself  upon  his  heels,  and  took 
hold  with  both  hands  of  two  ropes  near  him,  and  still  balancing, 
looked  out,  between  his  arms,  into  the  night ;  forgetting  that, 
partly  owing  to  his  own  prejudice  against  the  lad,  and  partly, 
from  an  exaggerated  desire  on  the  Captain's  part  to  avoid  all 
suspicion  amongst  his  officers  of  nepotic  partiality,  Theodosius 
was  the  lad  most  frequently  found  fault  with,  and  most  often 
put  upon  unpleasant  duty  in  the  vesM-1. 

Ue  was  right,  however,  in  his  estimation  of  his  character. 
"  That  lad  will  do  anything  for  praise,"  struck  at  the  root  of 
his  disposition.  He  had  run  away  from  school  to  join  Captain 
Warner,  the  first  cousin  of  his  mother,  who  had  called  him  a 
"  smart  fellow." 

As  the  kinsman  of  his  Captain,  it  was  always  suspected  he 
was  favored  by  authority.  All  the  fancied  slights  and  vexa- 
tions received  from  their  superiors,  by  his  comrades,  were 
revenged  upon  him. 

When  disposed  to  do  him  justice,  they  allowed  that  he  was 
good-tempered  and  safe;  his  love  of  approbation,  leading 
him  rarely  to  risk  the  good  opinion  of  a  comrade,  by  telling 
any  anecdote  to  his  disadvantage.  He  was  not  a  lad  of  very 


56  A  M  A  B  K  L  ;     A     FAMILY     II  I  S  T  O  R  Y . 

social  habits,  or  the  temptation  of  shining  at  another's  expense 
might  possibly  have  proved  too  strong  for  him. 

He  adored  his  profession.  To  have  been  honorably  men- 
tioned in  a  despatch,  he  would  have  accepted  any  danger.  He 
was  eager,  energetic,  and  self-confident,  when  he  had  only  him- 
self to  depend  upon  ;  was  always  going  beyond  his  functions, 
or  the  wishes  of  his  superiors,  and  in  constant  scrapes  on  every 
occasion.  He  was  one  of  those  persons,  in  short,  who  would 
have  won  all  praise,  had  he  stoural  midway  in  every  under- 
taking ;  but,  not  being  able  tBBU^stand  the  temptation  of 
making  any  one  his  friend,  he  wlWnways  carried  by  excess  of 
zeal  beyond  the  .confines  of  prudence,  duty,  and  authority. 
He  was  the  most  active  spirit  of  the  ship,  and  never  could 
resist  any  glance  of  approbation. 

If  I  cast  blame  upon  his  motives,  it  is  because  in  after  years 
he  taught  me,  that  man's  duty  rests  upon  more  stable  princi- 
ples ;  and  if  T  point  out  as  a  weakness,  his  love  of  approbation, 
it  is  because  he  taught  me  early  to  consider  it  so.  But  the 
majority  of  men  who  have  adopted  these  ideas  as  their  auxili- 
aries in  the  work  of  education,  have  no  right  to  call  his  princi- 
ple of  action  worthless,  or  his  ambition  un-christian,  vain,  or 
unennobling.  He  kept  his  watch  that  night,  with  a  light 
heart,  proud  of  the  approbation  of  his  commander,  and  of  his 
own  quickness  of  sight  which  had  made  out  the  signal. 

Little  he  knew  that  with  the  facts  that  it  communicated, 

there  lay  bound  up  his  own  history. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Hurrah  !  for  the  Valetta  harbor !  No  captain  ever  ran  in 
there  with  a  convoy  more  eagerly  than  Captain  "Warner,  five 
days  after  he  had  made  out  the  unwelcome  signal. 

Beautiful  harbor !  On  the  one  hand  frowned  the  Castle  of 
St.  Elmo,  a  vast  mass  of  jagged  freestone  broken  here  and 
there  by  loopholes,  and  squared  windows,  cut  out  without 
regard  to  architectural  regularity.  Before  the  city  stretched 
the  beautiful  smooth  bay.  whose  mouth  opened  to  the  north-east, 
guarded  by  the  round  and  light-house  looking  Fort  Riascoli. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  the  ships  were  dressed  in  flags  ;  the  hum 


AMABEL;    A   F  A  M  i  L  Y   H  i  s  T  o  R  r .  5*7 

of  commerce  was  lessened  if  not  hushed ;  and  but  for  the  bustle 
caused  by  the  entrance  of  the  little  merchant  fleet,  there  would 
have  been  a  Sabbath  stillness  in  the  harbor,  the  vessels  almost 
basking  in  the  intense  heat  of  the  sunny  summer  day.  There 
was  a  couple  of  three-deckers  at  that  time  in  port,  but  the 
object  that  first  struck  the  eyes  of  Captain  Warner,  was  the 
Sea  Gull  anchored  near  the  quarantine  harbor,  or  Marsa 
Musat,  which  is  separated  from  the  larger,  outer  harbor,  by  the 
sharp  and  tongue-like  promontory  on  which  is  built  the  town. 

The  moment  Captain  Warner  could  feel  it  right  to  leave  Lis 
vessel,  his  gig  was  mannet^and  pulling  alongside  the  Sea  Gull, 
he  asked  eagerly  for  Captain  Annesley. 

The  Captain  had  gone  ashore. 

"  Had  the  Sea  Gull  only  come  into  port  that  morning  ?" 

"  No,  yesterday.  They  had  been  in  chase  of  a  French  brig, 
which  had  run  them  a  hundred  miles  out  of  their  course  to  the 
eastward." 

Captain  Warner  saluted  the  officer  at  the  Sea  Gull's  gang- 
way, and  threw  himself  back  in  the  stern  sheets  impatiently. 
His  coxswain  asked  his  orders. 

"  To  the  stairs  !     The  Nix  Mangare." 

They  landed  him  beneath  the  frowning  front  of  stern 
St.  Elmo,  and,  turning  to  his  right,  he  walked  along  the  quay 
of  the  great  harbor. 

Here  lay  boats  of  every  shape  and  of  all  sizes  drawn  up  upon 
the  beach  out  of  the  water ;  sailors  of  all  nations  lounging  lazily 
around.  The  trig  man-o'- war's  man  in  blue  jacket,  white 
trowsers,  and  straw  hat,  was  awaiting  the  arrival  of  somo 
officer ;  Maltese  fisher  sailors,  the  best  in  the  Mediterranean, 
who  had  spent  their  night  upon  the  waters,  lay  sleeping  out  tho 
day  beside  their  fishing  craft,  dressed  in  white  cotton  shirts,  full 
trowsers  to  the  knee,  the  rest  of  the  leg  naked  or  swathed  in 
loose  unwieldy  bands,  long  knives  in  shagreen  sheaths  with  tho 
handles  sticking  out  of  their  gay  girdles,  and  striped  caps 
of  red  or  blue  upon  their  heads.  There  were  likewise  lounging, 
smoking  or  asleep,  Greek  and  occasionally  Turkish  sailors ;  for 
the  trade  with  the  Levant,  at  that  time  very  flourishing,  was 
all  carried  on  through  Malta,  and  the  dresses  and  accoutre- 

3* 


58  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

irients  of  these  wild  groups  were  remarkably  in  keeping  with 
the  semi-Orientalism  of  the  scene.  Shops  for  eastern  goods, 
and  sailors'  eating-houses,  bordered  the  Marina  ;  but  all  the  rest 
of  the  buildings  facing  inward,  gave  to  the  mere  European 
traveller  a  notion  of  domestic  architecture  in  the  eastern  style. 

The  Captain's  intention  was  to  call  on  Mrs.  Annesley, 
but  remembering  that  it  was  Sunday,  he  took  his  road  past  the 
little  chapel  of  the  English  near  the  Governor's  residence. 

He  met  the  congregation  coming  out ;  amongst  them  Captain 
and  Mrs.  Annesley. 

"Ha!  Warner,  old  boy!"  said  the  Captain.  "How  are 
you  ?  And  what  did  you  make  out  of  my  signal  ?" 

"  That  Miss  Karnac  is  to  be  married  to  your  infernal  French 
Captain,"  was  the  answer. 

"  But  that  was  not  the  point  of  it,"  the  other  replied.  "  Since 
I  heard  how  things  were  going  from  my  wife,  I  have  been  off 

Tarragona,  and  Admiral happening  to  ask  after  you, 

I  told  him  the  whole  story.  Says  he,  '  Be  hanged  if  any 
Frenchman  cuts  out  his  prize  from  him.'  It  is  his  plan  that 
something  might  be  done  by  way  of  an  exchange  for  this 
young  rascal,  and  I  have  here  a  letter  for  the  Governor,  and  an 
order  to  take  him  with  me  when  I  make  sail  for  Gibraltar. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  see  him,"  he  went  on  to  say.  "  He 
is  on  parole  in  Citta  Vecchia.  I  am  going  to  ride  over  there 
this  morning,  and  tell  him  to  hold  himself  in  readiness  to  sail 
next  week."  . 

"  No,  I  can't  go,  thank  you,"  said  Captain  Warner,  who  in 
these  expressions  understood  an  invitation  to  accompany  him, 
and  was  not  altogether  sure  how  far  he  was  acting  fairly  by 
proxy  towards  his  rival.  "  I  have  to  pay  my  respects  to  the 
Governor." 

"Well,"  replied  Annesley,  "if  he  joins  me  when  I  sail, 
the  coast  is  clear  for  you." 

"  Warner  !  ahoy  !  Warner  !"  He  called  after  his  friend  ; 
who  with  a  few  rapid  strides  had  almost  got  beyond  hail 
of  him.  "  You  must  dine  with  us  to-day  at  our  rooms  in 
Floriana.  Half-past  five,  mind,  and  Mrs.  Annesley  will  accept 
of  no  excuses." 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  59 

"  Nothing  can  be  further  from  my  thoughts  than  to  excuse 
myself  to  Mrs.  Annesley." 

It  was  the  turning  point  of  Captain  Warner's  destiny. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Gather  the  roses  while  ye  may, 
Old  Time  is  still  a-flying, 
The  fairest  flower  that  blooms  to-day 
To-morrow  maybe  dying. — HERRICK. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  May  morning.  The  north-east  breeze  was 
gently  breathing  odors  from  the  flowery  shores  of  Sicily,  where 
gloomy  Dis  seized  his  unwilling  bride :  it  was1  the  commence- 
ment of  the  Maltese  summer,  but  as  yet  the  glare  reflected  from 
the  stone  walls  and  shadeless  plains  of  the  grey  rock,  was 
not  intolerable.  The  temperature  of  Valetta  itself  is  almost 
always  equable,  and  at  the  pleasant  spot  near  the  Palace  of  the 
former  Grand  Inquisitor,  not  far  from  which  Dr.  Glascock's 
country  residence  was  built,  near  the  centre  of  the  southern 
shore  of  the  island,  the  heat  was  scarcely  greater  than  that 
of  an  English  spring.  The  landscape  that  here  presented 
itself  was  not  altogether  dissimilar  to  that  of  certain  of  our 
less  cultivated  districts. 

At  the  south-west  portion  of  the  island  is  a  double  line 
of  cliff's  ;  the  outer  one  rising  from  the  sea,  and  sloping 
inward,  till  the  freestone  wall  of  the  second  line  abruptly  flanks 
the  valley.  It  was  upon  this  cultivated  slope  at  its  lower  and 
eastern  end,  and  looking  up  the  hollow  formed  by  the  chain  of 
rocky  hills  that  almost  bisects  Malta  (dividing  it  into  two  nearly 
equal  portions — the  eastern  thickly  populated,  and  the  western 
a  Petrea),  that  Dr.  Glascock  had  erected  his  small  country 
house,  and  surrounded  it  with  orange  trees.  The  road  to  this 
retreat  led  through  the  prettiest  and  most  cultivated  landscape  in 
all  Malta.  The  plains  and  gentle  declivities  were  rich  with  crops 
of  grain  and  fodder,  amongst  which  fields  ofsulh,  gay  with  large 

' 


60  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

red  flowers,  were  particularly  beautiful  and  conspicuous.  All 
were  surrounded  with  stone  walls,  coeval  with  the  field's  crea- 
tion. The  peasant,  in  making  a  grooved  bed  for  the  two 
or  three  feet  thickness  of  earth  scraped  from  the  fissures 
of  the  rocks,  or  brought  occasionally  from  Sicily,  removed  large 
fragments  of  the  porous  rock  and  made  his  wall  of  them. 
"  How  admirable  is  God's  Providence !"  cries  a  pious  Maltese 
writer ;  "  no  sooner  is  a  field  formed  than  on  that  very  spot  lie 
the  materials  to  raise  around  it  the  defence  that  it  requires  !" 

The  steep  acclivities  of  the  hill  sides  presented  a  succession 
of  terraces,  which,  rising  rapidly  one  above  the  other,  suggested 
to  the  beholder  the  idea  of  seats  in  a  vast  amphitheatre ;  whilst 
the  curved  lines  of  the  opposite  hills  strengthened  the  impres- 
sion. These  little  terraces  were  prettily  planted  with  fruit  trees, 
especially  the  apple  and  the  vine,  which  being  trained  together, 
intermingled  th'eir  branches  ;  for  having  been  carefully  pruned 
and  kept  low,  few  even  of  the  apple  trees  were  larger  than 
mere  shrubs.  In  full  bloom  at  the  time,  and  covering  so  consi- 
derable an  extent  of  ground,  they  presented  a  singular  appear- 
ance, broken  as  the  cultivation  was,  at  intervals,  by  ridges  of 
gray  limestone ;  whilst  on  the  right,  lay  the  lovely  valley  of 
Boschetto,  crowned  with  its  quadrangular  castle,  a  spot  which 
is  now  laid  out  in  groves  of  fruit  trees,  oranges,  lemons,  or 
pomegranates,  and  where  only  the  dark  olive,  once,  it  is  sup- 
posed, was  the  indigenous  product  of  the  isle. 

Winding  between  the  hill-slopes,  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
entrance  to  the  valley,  is  the  hard,  white  road,  running  south- 
wards from  Valetta,  passing  through  Citta  Vecchia,  the  ancient 
capital  of  the  island,  now  silent  and  deserted  like  an  enchanted 
city.  In  1809,  it  still  retained  some  portion  of  its  splendor; 
and  was  the  residence  on  parole  of  a  small  number  of  French 
officers,  who,  later  in  the  war,  well  nigh  fell  victims  to  the 
fanaticism  and  resentment  of  the  lower  orders. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  the  Sunday  afternoon  mentioned  in 
the  last  chapter  of  our  story,  that  Captain  Felix  Guiscard  rode 
at  full  speed  to  Ramalah. 

An  hour  earlier,  Amabel,  descending  to  the  garden,  had 
gathered  her  lap  full  of  sweet  flowers,  more  richly  perfumed 


AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  61 

it  is  said,  in  Malta,  than  elsewhere.  Holding  her  poor  aunt  by 
the  hand,  and  accompanied  as  usual  by  her  little  white  dog» 
Barba,  she  climbed  over  a  broken  portion  of  the  wall,  which 
inclosed  the  garden  of  the  Doctor ;  went  slowly  down  the  hill 
behind  his  cottage,  and  stood  at  the  eastern  extremity  of  the 
cliffs,  beside  the  sea. 

Whither  had  flown  her  former  doubts  of  life  ?  She  doubted 
not  her  happiness,  for  perfect  love  casts  out  all  fear.  Alas ! 
alas  !  that  dread  mistrustfulness  will  after  first  deception  follow 
on  such  fearlessness  !  Alas !  that  tender  hearts,  well  capable 
of  warm  affection,  should,  early  wounded,  grow  defiant ;  that 
caustic  words,  and  a  curled  lip,  and  Rochefoucauld  philosophy, 
should  be  the  signs  that  half  the  so-called  love  on  earth  is 
false,  and  that  the  unhappy  one  has  learned  to  mask  her  fears, 
her  wrongs,  her  helplessness,  by  simulated  fearlessness.  If  it 
be  real,  it  is  the  fearlessness  of  that  poor,  widowed,  fallen 
Queen,  when,  passing  out  of  the  low  wicket  of  the  Temple,  on 
her  way  to  the  Conciergerie,  she  struck  her  "  grey,  discrowned 
head  "  against  its  lintel,  and  answered  the  rough  inquiries  of 
her  jailor  with  the  saddest  words,  that,  perhaps,  ever  have  been 
uttered  by  a  woman's  lips :  "  Nothing  can  hurt  me  now." 

But  we  will  not  linger  on  such  thoughts,  for,  as  yet,  they 
have  nothing  in  common  with  our  subject.  In  Amabel,  all 
thoughts  were  swallowed  up  in  a  sensation  that  pervaded  her 
whole  being,  that  Felix  Guiscard  loved  her.  She  had  no 
anxiety  to  hear  him  say  it.  The  most  impassioned  words  could 
have  added  no  certainty  to  her  mind.  She  knew  their  lives,  to 
be  happy,  must  be  passed  together  :  to  be  complete,  must  be 
united.  She  was  as  necessary  to  him,  as  he  to  her.  She  had 
no  thought  for  the  future — the  present  had  absorbed  it,  together 
with  the  past.  Or  rather,  the  past  was  but  the  prelude  to  the 
present ;  the  future,  the  guarantee  for  its  continuance. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  path  over  the  cliffs,  which  led 
from  the  main  road  to  the  shelving  shore ;  and  the  moment  ho 
appeared,  she  caught  sight  of  him.  She  ran  to  meet  him ; 
more  joyous,  more  childlike,  than  usual,  for  a  fresh,  free  air 
was  blowing,  which  had  given  her  high  spirits  and  a  high 
color. 


62  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

She  wore,  as  she  always  did.  the  costume  of  the  country ; 
her  hands  and  feet  were  of  more  than  Maltese  beauty,  and  the 
peculiar  fashion  in  which  her  dark  hair  was  strained  into  the 
sugar-loaf  form,  back  from  her  forehead,  though  not  in  itself 
beautiful  or  natural,  gave  a  brilliancy  to  her  eyes,  and  a 
piquancy  to  the  fair  young  face,  so  expressive  in  its  beauty,  that 
was  perfectly  bewitching  to  those  accustomed  only  to  the 
totally  dissimilar  style  of  countenance  sought  to  be  produced 
by  the  fashions  of  the  times.  Over  her  head  she  wore  the 
black  silk  faldetta,  of  Moorish  or  Saracenic  origin ;  which 
thrown  back,  looked  like  .a  classical,  wide,  floating  mantle,  but 
when  she  walked,  was  twisted  gracefully  on  one  side,  and 
drawn  so  as  to  cover  the  lower  part  of  her  face.  The  skirt  of 
her  wide  robe  was  black,  but  opening  on  one  side,  gave  to  view 
the  ample,  snowy  petticoat ;  and  the  corset,  also  black,  stiffened 
with  whalebone,  and  laced  over  the  graceful  figure,  whose  out- 
line seemed  to  have  been  rounded  by  the  softest  touches  of 
Dame  Nature's  hand,  gave  something  the  appearance  of  a 
modern  court  dress  to  the  costume. 

The  faldetta,  her  black  mantle,  blew  out  sail-like  behind  her 
as  she  ran,  embarrassing  her  movements,  and  causing  her  to 
stop  every  few  moments  and  draw  it  closer  round  her  bright 
and  rosy  features.  Felix  stretched  out  both  his  hands,  and  as 
she  placed  hers  in  them,  the  faldetta  blew  forwards,  enveloped 
his  head,  and  the  hood  held  two  faces.  What  wonder  that, 
under  its  friendly  screen,  his  lips  met  her  forehead. 

It  was  two  hours  later  when  Dr.  Glascock,  having  risen  from 
a  leisurely  siesta,  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  acclivity,  on  the 
side  of  which  his  house  stood.  At  first  his  eyes  rested  on  a 
vessel  in  the  offing,  with  all  her  white  sails  glistening  as  she 
glided  across  a  golden  path  that  paved  the  waters  to  the  setting 
sun. 

The  "  tideless  Mediterranean"  rises  nevertheless  a  few  feet 
morning  and  evening,  during  the  months  of  spring  and 
autumn,  above  its  usual  level.  It  was  now  nearly  high  water, 
and  along  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  lay  a  mere  margin  of  white 
sand,  sloping  gently  out  of  which  rose  a  large  rock,  once 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY.  63 

Bella's  favorite  retreat  for  study  or  for  solitude,  now  dearest 
of  all  places  upon  earth,  from  the  memory  of  hours  she  and 
Felix  had  there  passed,  shut  in  from  prying  eyes,  the  blue  sea 
murmuring  at  their  feet,  the  grey  cliffs  sheltering  their  heads. 

Upon  this  rock  it  was  that  they  stood,  the  flowers  she 
had  brought  had  fallen  from  her  lap,  and  now  lay  scattered 
round  them.  He  seemed  in  act  to  go,  yet  lingering  still ;  as 
loath  not  to  prolong  that  "  sweetest  sorrow  of  the  parting 
words."  At  sight  of  them  the  Doctor,  with  all  speed,  began 
his  descent  from  the  ridge  of  the  acclivity,  but  a  sudden  bend 
in  the  steep  path  hid  them  for  a  moment  from  his  view. 

When  Doctor  Glascock  next  caught  sight  of  the  young 
lovers,  Felix  had  renounced  his  purpose  of  departure.  Amabel 
was  sitting  or  half  kneeling  on  the  rock,  and  he  had  placed 
himself  beside  her. 

"  Bella,  one  word  of  answer !" 

Her  eyes  turned  pleadingly  to  Doctor  Glascock.  Her  lover 
knew  that  she  thus  mutely  told  him  that  the  happiness  of 
which  he  had  been  speaking,  hung  on  the  consent  of  others. 

He  rose,  and  eagerly  addressed  the  Doctor.  As  Amabel's 
nearest  protector  and  guardian,  he  implored  his  blessing  on 
their  union,  and  that  it  might  be  speedily ;  that  he  might 
carry  her  with  him  if  he  returned  to  France,  and  restore  her 
to  her  father's  home. 

"  I  have  no  such  authority  as  you  suppose,"  replied  the 
Doctor.  "  Mademoiselle  is  under  the  guardianship  of  her 
uncle.  You  must  gain  the  consent  of  Mr.  Sibbes." 

"  Then,  Felix,"  cried  Amabel,  starting  up  with  sudden  anima- 
tion, "  refuse  this  terrible  exchange  on  any  plea  you  like,  and 
stay  in  Malta.  My  uncle  will  not  be  back  from  Smyrna  till 
October,  and  meantime" — 

Captain  Guiscard  shook  his  head,  but  Dr.  Glascock  inter- 
rupted his  reply  to  Amabel's  bright  hopes.  "  Go  up  to  the 
house,"  he  said,  "  and  we  will  come  to  you  in  half  an  hour. 
I  must  have  some  talk  on  this  with  Capt.  Guiscard." 

She  rose  up  and  obeyed  him.  The  wind  had  lulled.  Both 
watched  her  light  figure,  till  in  one  of  the  windings  of  the 
path  it  disappeared,  when  the  Doctor  turned  to  the  Captain 


64  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

•with  a  remark  not  to  have  been  expected  from  one  of  his 
cynicism  and  years. 

"  She  loves  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "  No  man  can  doubt  that ! 
She  loves  you,  sir ; — she  loves  you." 

The  words  seemed  wrung  from  him  by  an  extremity  of 
emotion. 

"  I  have  entire  trust  in  her  affection,"  was  the  answer. 

"  And  you  may  have  in  her  constancy.  Hers  is  one  of 
those  clinging  natures  which  cannot  detach  themselves,  even 
from  a  common  friend,  without  leaving  a  part  of  life  itself 
behind.  Some  persons,  Captain  Guiscard,  dissociate  them- 
selves as  they  are  from  themselves  as  they  were  or  as  they  hope 
to  be.  Progressive  natures,  on  the  contrary^  cherish  the  memo- 
ries of  the  past,  because  they  see  in  them  the  germ  of  the  pre- 
sent, and  prophecies  of  the  future,  nor  can  they  live  without  a 
prospect  in  life  before  them.  You  are  associated  with  her  past, 
in  you  are  centred  all  her  visions  of  the  future — you  are  her  life. 
Were  her  future  existence  to  be  severed  from  you  by  accident 
or  treachery,  she  would  live  indeed,  and  in  time  recover  herself 
I  trust,  but  every  hope,  taste,  and  affection,  which  embellish 
life,  would  long  be  bruised,  sickly,  and  imperfect  in  her." 

"  Do  you  intend,  sir,"  he  resumed  after  a  pause,  "  to  give 
up  your  exchange,  and  wait  for  Mr.  Sibbes  in  Malta  ?" 

"  That  would  not  be  possible.  My  honor  as  an  officer — my 
devotion  to  my  country — my  professional  prospects — all  forbid 
my  making  use  of  any  false  plea  of  ill  health,"  began  Captain 
Guiscard. 

"  Enough,  sir.  I  knew  that  you  would  not.  Be  it  my  task, 
therefore,  to  make  Mr.  Sibbes  favorable  to  your  hopes,  and  to 
receive  security  for  your  good  faith  from  you." 

"  Security  !" 

"  Most  certainly.  If  you  leave  Malta,  have  we  any  cer- 
tainty that  in  your  active  changeful  life  you  will  form  no  other 
hopes — love  no  other  pretty  woman  ?" 

And  without  regarding  the  fervent  protestations  poured  out 
by  the  young  lover,  he  went  on  to  insist  on  this  security. 

"You  are  attached  to  her,  you  say.  That  is  between  you 
and  her.  You  say  you  love  her ;  but,  sir,  is  Mr.  Sibbes,  whose 


A  M  A  D  E  L ;      A     FAMILY     HISTORY.  65 

ideas  are  all  pecuniary,  to  be  satisfied  to  have  his  niece  remain 
unmarried  in  his  house  on  such  security  ?  Are  you  sure 
that  in  the  end  his  arguments  would  have  no  weight  with 
Amabel  ? 

"Bon  dieuf  you  torture  me.  What  would  you  have  me 
do,  M.  le  docteur  ?  " 

"  Offer  the  man  security  for  your  fidelity,  of  a  nature  that  he 
can  understand.  Bind  Amabel  to  constancy  by  her  honor 
as  well  as  her  affection." 

"  And  how  ?" 

"  Those  Breton  lands  you  hold,  v7rung,  by  the  devices  of 
revolutionary  times,  by  your  father  the  intendant,  from  her 
father  the  noble,  restored  to  her  by  deed  of  gift,  would  secure 
all  these  advantages.  At  the  end  of  the  war,  you  might  reclaim 
both  wife  and  property.  Mr.  Sibbes  could  not  object  to  a  suitor 
who  had  already  made  such  sacrifices.  Bella  could  never  doubt 
your  tried  fidelity ;  you  would  have  acquired  new  claims  on 
her  affection  by  your  sacrifice." 

With  a  sort  of  weak  generosity  he  meant  to  secure  to  her 
the  object  of  her  choice.  At  the  worst,  he  gave  her  the  inheri- 
tance of  her  fathers,  and  for  himself,  if  he  must  lose  her  (and 
he  saw  but  too  clearly  that  all  his  early  claims  upon  her  love 
had  lost  their  force)  better  a  Frenchman  should  win  her  than 
an  Englishman ;  better  Felix  than  Captain  Warner. 

"  The  father  in  IS  Amour  Medecin"  thought  he  to  himself, 
"  spoke  not  unwisely  when  he  lamented  the  hard  fate  of  those 
who  bring  up  female  children,  only  to  see  them,  at  the  age 
when  they  have  grown  most  useful,  most  desirable,  most  com- 
panionable, pass  into  the  hands  of  a  stranger." 

"  I  see  that  my  proposition  is  distasteful  to  you,"  he  resumed, 
having,  during  the  pause,  closely  watched  the  other's  features. 
"  Nevertheless,  it  is  the  price  of  my  influence  with  her  uncle. 
Nay,  sir,"  (for  Felix  was  about  to  speak)  "  we  will  not  chaffer, 
if  you  please,  over  such  a  bargain." 

He  began  ascending  to  his  house  with  some  rapidity.  Felix 
followed  him,  lost  in  thought.  He  saw  that  his  only  real  secu- 
rity for  his  own  happiness  or  the  safety  of  his  patrimony,  if  he 
did  what  Dr.  Glascock  required,  was  the  affection  of  Amabel. 


66  AMABEL;    A    TAMIL Y   HISTORY. 

x  -  1 

But  he  had  full  trust  in  her.  lie  saw  her  in  the  glow  of  setting 
sunlight,  standing  on  the  cliffs  above  the  house  and  looking 
down.  He  fancied  she  was  weeping,  and  he  would  have 
''coined  his  blood  to  drachmas"  could  gold  have  stayed  the  tear- - 
drops  that  fell  from  those  bright  eyes.  He  hastened  his  steps ; 
he  overtook  the  doctor. 

"  Will  you  give  me  time,  sir  ?"  he  said.  "  Give  me  till  to- 
morrow, that  I  may  make  sure  I  have  understood  the  instruc- 
tions of  Captain  Annesley." 

He  ran  up  flfe  cliff  to  join  her.  He  told  her — not  the  price 
he  was  to  pay — but  that  the  doctor  was  their  friend  and  their 
protector.  He  told  her  how  he  trusted  her  and  loved  her ;  and 
every  word  he  said  awoke  its  echoes  in  her  heart,  repeated  and 
multiplied. 

"  To-morrow  !"  he  said,  parting  at  length. 

"  To-morrow !"  she  answered.  "  To-morrow — dear  to-mor- 
row !" 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  his  horse. 
He  was  glad  to  escape  a  second  meeting  with  the  doctor ;  and, 
with  a  heart  less  light  than  that  with  which  he  had  left  Citta 
Vecchia,  he  rode  more  slowly  back  to  it  as  evening  fell. 

He  had  not  ridden  half  a  mile  from  Ramalah,  when  he  be- 
came aware  that  her  dog,  who  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  him, 
was  following  him. 

As  he  passed  through  Citta  Vecchia,  he  stopped  a  moment 
at  the  residence  of  the  English  officer,  then  on  duty,  to 
obtain  permission  to  pass  the  night  in  Valetta,  as  he  had  busi- 
ness to  transact  there.  On  his  arrival  at  Valetta  he  put  up  his 
horse  at  an  inn  with  which  he  was  acquainted,  in  the  suburbs, 
ordered  a  bed,  and  then  set  out  in  search  of  Captain  Annesley. 

It  was  half  past  ten  o'clock.  No  moon.  The  night  was 
cloudy.  The  scanty  lamps  burned  dim.  Felix  turned  into  the 
street  where  Captain  Annesley  had  taken  lodgings,  and  found 
it  quite  deserted.  Not  a  living  soul  appeared  to  be  abroad. 


AMABEL;    A'  FAMILY    HISTORY.  67 


*  * 


CHAPTER  VII. 

He  who  too  far  indulges  hope, 
Will  find  how  soon  hope  fails ; 
He's  like  a  seaman  bottling  wind 
In  hopes  to  fill  his  sails. 

TRANSLATION  OF  A  MALTESE  SONO. 

"MR.  GRUMP,"  said  Captain  Warner,  coming  on  board  the 
Dodo  in  no  good  humor,  about  the  hour  Captain  Felix 
Guiscard  set  out  for  Ramalah.  "Mr.  Grump,  we  are  to  sail 
again  to-night  with  a  devil  of  a  French  spy  on  board,  whom 
the  Admiral  has  ordered  me  to  take  to  join  Sir  John  Warren 
in  Sicily.  Have  his  cot  slung  in  my  cabin.  He  will  mess  at 
my  table.  You  will  receive  him  when  he  comes  on  board, 
and  take  care  of  him.  He  is  a  personage  of  importance,  with 
particular  news  for  the  army  in  Sicily.  His  name  is  Girard. 
I  shall  be  on  board  by  nine.  I  am  going  to  dine  on  shore 
with  Captain  Annesley." 

Mr.  Grump,  left  in  command  of  the  vessel,  paced  the  quarter- 
deck in  dudgeon,  remembering  that  he  too  had  an  engagement 
in  Valetta,  and  that  the  second  lieutenant  having  had  leave  to 
go  ashore,  it  would  be  out  of  rule  for  him  to  quit  the  ship  upon 
the  eve  of  sailing. 

As  the  evening  advanced,  however,  and  there  appeared 
nothing  particular  for  him  to  do,  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
intrust  his  command  to  the  officer  of  the  watch  for  half  an 
hour,  the  acting  junior  lieutenant,  my  father,  Theodosius  Ord, 
and  taking  a  boat,  was  landed  on  the  Marina.  He  stayed 
longer  than  he  had  intended,  for  a  friend  detained  him  over 
a  pleasant  bottle.  It  wanted  a  quarter  of  nine  when  he 
returned  to  the  vessel.  Theodosius  met  him  at  the  gangway. 

"  Mr.  Grump,  is  that  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

u  Have  you  seen  anything  of  Mr.  Girard,  sir  J" 


68  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Mr.  Girard,  sir  ?" 

"Yes,  sir — J;he  French  spy.  He  came  on  board  just  after 
you  left,  sir,  in  one  of  the  boats  from  the  flag-ship,  and  as  it 
was  only  seven  o'clock  he  asked  leave  to  go  ashore  and  get  his 
kit.  I  gave  him  leave,  sir." 

"  The  devil  you  did,  sir !  And  I,  sir,  am  responsible  to 
Captain  Warner.  Did  you  know  he  was  a  person  of  import- 
ance, sir  ?  Do  you  know  I  can  be  broke  for  this  by  a  court- 
martial  ?"  cried  the  lieutenant,  jumping  back  into  his  boat  with 
angry  gestures  towards  his  junior. 

"  Hang  it !  I  am  very  sorry,  sir.  He  must  be  on  board 
soon,  sir,  I  think.  He  promised  me,  in  less  than  an  hour,1'  was 
Theodosius's  answer. 

"  On  board  again !"  repeated  Mr.  Grump  disdainfully.  "  Do 
you  suppose,  sir,  that  he'll  come  on  board  again?  It  is  a 
stratagem  on  his  part,  and  if  I  can't  catch  him  in  half  an  hour 
I  shall  order  you  under  an  arrest,  sir." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Grump  pushed  off  again  from  the  Dodo,  and 
swore  at  Theodosius  all  the  way  across  the  harbor. 
*   By  the  time  he  landed,  his  wine  and  his  vexation  had  put 
him  quite  beside  himself.     He  rushed  into  every  sailors'  shop 
in  the  Marina,  making  incoherent  inquiries. 

"  Anybody  know  a  Frenchman  ?  A  French  spy  living  in 
Valetta  ?  a  Frenchman  !  a  Frenchman  !  a  Monsieur  Girard  !  a 
man  who  landed  from  the  Dodo  about  two  hours  ago  ?" 

"  Go  this  way,"  said  one.  "  Try  that  way,"  said  another. 
Poor  Grump  in  despair  dashed,  at  the  head  of  his  boat's  crew, 
up  the  principal  street  of  Valetta.  Some  one  (he  questioned 
every  man  he  met)  had  told  him  there  was  a  Frenchman  living 
in  Floriana.  Thither  he  went,  and  having  no  definite  ideas  of 
the  geography  of  that  locality,  happened  to  strike  into  the 
quiet  street  where  Captain  Annesley  had  taken  lodgings,  just 
as  Felix  Guiscard  reached  his  door. 

"Ahoy  there!  you!"  cried  the  lieutenant.  "What  is  the 
way  out  of  this  street?  Do  you  know  any  Frenchman  in  this 
neighborhood  ?" 

"  Comment,  monsieur  ?  "  said  Captain  Guiscard. 

"  Come  along.    I  am  in  chase  of  you,  sir.    You're  my  man," 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  69 

cried  the  lieutenant.     "  What  are  you  doing  here  ?    What  did 
you  go  ashore  for  ?     Is  your  name  Girard,  sir  ?" 

"  I  am  le  Capitaine  Guiscard"  said  the  other,  who,  whether 
he  understood  the  last  question  or  not,  thought  it  better  to 
declare  himself. 

"  Guiscard  I  Hang  their  French  pronunciation.  The  cap- 
tain called  it  Girard.*  Never  mind ;  it's  all  the  same.  Come 
along  with  me,  sir  ;  you  are  the  man  I  want,"  poured  forth  the 
lieutenant,  pressed  for  time,  overjoyed  at  the  rencontre,  and  with 
his  brain  a  good  deal  fuddled. 

Felix  had  mastered  a  few  words  of  Italian  during  his  two 
residences  in  Malta,  but  could  not  speak  a  syllable  of  Engh'sh. 
Nevertheless  he  endeavored  to  remonstrate. 

"  Collar  him  !  Take  hold  of  him  !  Gag  him  !  Make  him 
be  quiet,  men !"  cried  the  lieutenant,  shouting  into  his  ear  the 
two  words  most  likely  to  be  understood  and  to  explain 
the  business,  "  Captain  Warner  of  the  Dodo ;  Captain  War- 
ner!" 

Still  Felix  struggled.  Windows  were  opening  in  the  street ; 
there  was  no  time  for  ceremony.  One  of  the  sailors  stuffed  a 
ball  of  rope-yarn  into  his  mouth ;  his  arms  were  seized  and 
pinioned.  Four  stout  men  lifted  him  off  his  feet,  and,  at  a 
word  from  the  lieutenant,  all  the  party,  followed  by  the  dog, 
dashed  down  hill  at  full  speed  to  the  Marina.  Felix  was  stowed 
in  the  boat  with  little  ceremony,  and  the  Dodo's  men  pulled 
off  to  join  their  vessel.  She  had  weighed  anchor;  she  was 
working  out  into  the  Great  Harbor.  Mr.  Grump  stood  up  in 
the  stern  sheets,  and  exhorted  his  men  to  "  give  way,"  to  pull 
harder. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir." 

And  the  little  boat  skimmed  over  the  dark  water,  for  the 
night  was  clouded,  as  we  said.  Before  them  all  was  black ;  but 
the  bright  lights  of  the  harbor,  shining  like  stars  in  an  inverted 
sky,  were  gleaming  in  the  path  behind. 

Felix,  stunned,  gagged,  and  bewildered,  lay  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat,  and  gazed  at  them.  Hope  lay  behind :  every  mo- 

•  A  similar  miit»ke  occurred,  during  the  last  war,  in  Mahon  harbor. 


YO 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


ment  bore  him  swiftly  to  an  unknown  future— doubt,  distress, 
and  darkness. 

They  have  come  up  with  the  Dodo.  Again  Theodosius 
meets  them  at  the  gangway. 

"I  have  him,"  cried  the  lieutenant,  springing  on  board. 
"  Hand  up  that  Frenchman." 

"  Have  who  ?"  cried  Theodosius,  hoarsely. 

"  The  spy— your  M.  Girard.  What's  his  name  ?  Guiscard. 
You  pronounced  it  wrong,  my  boy,"  replied  the  other. 

"  Mr.  Grump,  it  is  the  wrong  man,  sir.  The  right  one  came 
on  board  just  after  you  left.  We  shall  have  two  of  them  on 
board,  sir." 

"  Don't  speak  too  loud,"  continued  he,  as  the  lieutenant  burst 
upon  him  with  a  volley  of  execration.  "  I  thought  it  best  to  say 
•nothing  to  the  captain." 

"  Hoist  him  up  here  in  the  boat.  He  '11  be  safe  there  for 
the  present,  and  throw  my  boat  cloak  over  him,"  said  Grump  to 
the  seamen  who  were  bringing  his  prisoner  over  the  side ;  and, 
without  further  concern  at  present  for  his  fate,  he  went  down 
to  report  himself  to  Captain  Warner.  The  captain  was  in  good 
humor,  drinking  wine  and  talking  French  with  M.  Girard.  The 
lieutenant  escaped  his  reprimand,  and  had  so  much  to  do  for 
some  hours,  in  attention  to  his  duties,  that  it  was  not  till  all 
hands,  save  the  watch,  had  turned  in  for  the  night,  that  he  had 
time  to  feel  troubled  as  to  the  consequences  of  his  adventure. 
As  he  paced  the  quarter-deck,  he  observed  something  to  lee- 
ward of  the  vessel. 

He  opened  his  night-glass,  and  found  they  were  running 
close  down  upon  a  boat  of  that  kind  called,  in  the  Mediterra- 
nean, a  speronara.  It  is  a  sort  of  shallop  without  deck,  from 
twenty- four  to  thirty  feet  in  length,  manned  by  a  crew  of  seven 
Maltese  sailors — the  captain,  or  patron,  and  six  rowers.  He 
hailed  it ;  the  Padrone  answered  him,  and,  in  a  few  minutes, 
she  was  dragging  alongside  the  Dodo.  She  proved  to  be  the 
Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli,  engaged  in  carrying  cattle  from 
to  Malta.  She  had  about  fifteen  head  on  board,  lashed 
1  thwarts  or  benches. 
I  lieutenant,  hanging  over  his  vessel's  side,  soon  made  an 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  71 

agreement,  by  signs,  with  the  Padrone,  who  understood  he  was 
to  receive  a  passenger,  and  land  him  within  a  few  hours  at 
Malta. 

Mr.  Grump  trusted  that,  even  if  the  story  of  the  kidnapping 
got  abroad  in  Valetta,  he  would  be  able  to  represent  it  so  hu- 
morously in  an  after-dinner  conversation  with  the  captain,  when 
the  consequences  were  all  remedied  and  the  affair  had  aged,  that 
he  would  get  off  himself  without  anything  worse  than  a  cau- 
tionary reprimand.  And,  after  all,  a  few  hours'  fright  to  a 
Frenchman  and  a  prisoner  could  have  little  importance  to  the 
government  authorities. 

He  called  to  an  old  sea  dog  who  was  near  him,  and  together 
they  dragged  Captain  Guiscard  out  of  the  boat,  his  hands  still 
tied  and  his  mouth  stuffed  with  rope-yarn.  The  speronard's 
crew  received  him  at  the  gangway.  The  lieutenant,  with  his 
own  hands,  cast  off  the  Santa  Maria,  making  signs  to  the 
Padrone  to  unbind  his  prisoner,  as  soon  as  he  was  beyond 
hearing  of  the  Dodo.  The  Padrone  jingled  together  some  sil- 
ver given  him  for  the  service,  and  stood  up  in  his  boat  making 
signs  of  intelligence  and  bows.  The  lieutenant  watched  the 
little  craft  as  she  worked  her  way  into  the  thick  darkness,  and 
congratulated  himself  on  his  good  luck  and  dexterity.  The 
affair  might  be  spoken  of,  very  likely,  in  the  forecastle,  but 
would  never  from  that  quarter  make  its  way  to  Captain 
Warner. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

Helas  !     II  m'a  done  f.ii  sans  me  laisser  de  trace, 

Mais  pour  le  retenir  fai  fait  ce  que  j'ai  pu, 
Ce  temps  ou  le  bonheur  brille  et  soudain  s'efface 

Comme  un  sourire  interrompu. — VICTOR  HUGO 

"NEWNESS  of  life!"  In  their  general,  their  highest  accepta- 
tion, these  words  have  a  scriptural  and  theological  meaning,  but 
the  historian  of  the  heart  may  borrow  the  expression,  for 


72  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HIS  TORY. 

it  designates  exactly  that  change  which  passes  over  the  whole 
being  on  the  first  certainty  of  loving  and  being  loved.  A  sister 
will  sometimes  hardly  recognise  the  companion  of  her  nursery, 
her  studies,  her  girlhood's  hopes  and  joys,  when  this  great 
change  has  taken  place,  and  the  happy  one  has  found  even  her 
own  past  life  look  strange  to  her.  . 

But  to  Amabel — the  loving  and  the  lonely — whose  life  had 
latterly  been  aimless  (disqontent  had  not  grown  upon  her  sim- 
ply because  she  understood  no  happier  lot,)  to  be  so  loved,  so 
blessed,  with  such  a  perspective  view  of  future  happiness  opened 
suddenly  before  her,  embodying  at  once  the  realization  of  every 
dream  of  her  childhood,  however  wild ;  of  every  yearning  of 
her  heart  in  later  years,  however  vague ;  .the  newness  of  life 
that  broke  upon  her  was  overwhelming  in  its  strangeness  and 
immensity.  It  was  many  hours  deep  into  the  night  before  she 
sought  her  pillow ; — she  spent  them  walking  backwards  and 
forwards  in  her  chamber,  with  her  hands  clasped  and  her  eyes 
beaming,  her  smile  satisfied  and  proud.  She  could  not  defi- 
nitely fix  her  thoughts  on  any  speculations  for  the  future,  or 
reminiscences  of  happiness,  but  mechanically,  almost  without 
perception  of  their  meaning,  out  of  the  very  fulness  of  her 
heart,  her  lips  kept  on  repeating  words  that  he  had  said  to  her, 
so  strange — so  new — so  beautiful. 

The  language  of  love  is  the  only  language  understood  when 
heard  for  the  first  time ;  and  she  had  heard  it  and  had  spoken  it 
a  few  hours  before,  as  the  shadows  of  the  night  crept  over  them, 
and  they  sat  together  on  the  green  hill-side  alone. 

And  then  again  she  would  fall  down  on  her  knees  beside  her 
bed,  or  near  the  window,  and  pour  forth  the  fulness  of  her 
heart,  thanking  God,  who  had  given  her  such  happiness ;  for, 
ignorant  as  she  was  of  forms,  and  creeds,  and  doctrines  (barriers 
wisely  set  around  our  faith  to  prevent  the  encroachments  of 
mysticism  into  religion),  it  was  the  voice  of  nature  that  pro- 
claimed that  love  is  God's  best  gift ;  that  its  tendency,  till  the 
soils  of  earth  pollute  it,  is  to  lead  upward  to  the  Giver ;  that 
happiness  is  the  state  in  which  man  may  best  serve  his  Creator 
here,  as  he  served  him  in  Eden,  and  shall  hereafter  serve  Him 
in  the  courts  of  heaven. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  73 

Yet  who  knows,  if  she  had  married  as  she  desired  and  ex- 
pected, how  long  this  loving  happiness  would  have  endured  ? 
Though  her  beloved  and  herself,  for  a  few  months  or  a  few 
years,  might  have  merged  their  individualities  together,  so  as, 
indeed,  to  be  but  of  one  heart  and  of  one  mind — that  period  in 
married  life  must  have  come  to  them,  as  it  comes  to  all,  when 
differences  of  character,  of  views  and  tastes,  must  have  jarred 
upon  their  happiness ;  when  each  would  have  discovered  the 
other  was  not  perfect,  when  allowances  on  each  side  would  have 
been  'called  for,  when,  for  the  first  time,  must  have  been  enter- 
tained by  each  a  vague  feeling  of  the  possibility  of  future  dis- 
union and  unhappiness.  Was  their  love  of  such  a  nature  as  to 
stand  firm  and  come  purified,  triumphant,  and  enlarged  out  of 
these  trials  ?  "Was  it  so  founded  as  to  be  likely  to  gather  prin- 
ciple in  hours  of  happiness  wherewith  it  might  withstand  the 
threatening  aspect  of  a  darker  day  1 

In  misty  rain  broke  that  desired  to-morrow.  Dr.  Glascock 
did  not  go  into  Valetta.  He  sat  with  gloomy  face  and  watched 
the  clouds  hanging  low  over  his  dwelling.  Amabel  wandered 
about  the  house  from  window  to  window,  straining  her  sight  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  high  road  through  the  thick  mist  that 
surrounded  them, 

Watching  afar,  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew ; 

endeavoring,  through  all  her  anxiety  and  the  sickening  nervous 
feeling  which  follows  upon  long  and  eager  often  deluded  expec- 
tation, to  excuse  the  tardiness  of  him  who  disappointed  her. 

"  Doctor,"  she  said  at  length,  "  did  he  say  he  would  be  early  ? 
There  may  be  such  a  little  time  before  he  leaves  us,  doctor !" 

"  My  child,"  said  the  doctor,  rising  and  coming  up  to  the 
window  where  she  stood,  "  have  you  taken  the  idea  that  the 
mere  talk  of  idle  hours  is  the  true  expression  of  love  ?  To  try 
the  love  a  man  professes  for  you,  Bella,  you  had  better  touch  his 
pocket.  The  pocket  tests  mankind." 

Bella  looked  inquiringly. 

"  I  have  put  him  to  this  proof.  I  made  a  proposition  to  him 
last  evening  to  settle  upon  you  his  portion  of  those  estates  your 
father  held  in  Brittany." 


74  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

Anger  glowed  over  Amabel's  bright  face  ;  the  pent  up  vexa- 
tion and  excitement  of  expectation  of  the  morning  burst  forth 
against  the  doctor.  The  vehemence  of  its  expression  positively 
alarmed  him.  She  almost  wept  away  her  senses  at  the  thought 
that  Felix  should  have  been  insulted  for  her  sake.  She  was 
sure  that  he  could  not  forgive  her ;  that  was  the  reason  he  had 
not  come. 

Evening  fell,  and  she  was  half  distracted.  There  was  no  post 
across  the  island,  and  no  communication  with  the  world  without 
had  taken  place  that  day.  Miserable  Amabel !  Felix  she  felt 
was  angry — the  doctor  angry — and  her  poor  aunt,  more  exacting 
than  usual,  on  account  of  the  confinement  to  the  house  occa- 
sioned by  the  weather,  was  made  fretful  and  capricious  by 
an  inattention  to  her  pleasures,  the  cause  of  which  she  could 
not  understand. 

The  heavy  rain  still  fell,  and  Bella  early  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep,  exhausted  by  emotion.  Yet  the  innermost  conviction  of 
her  little  aching  heart  was  secretly  that  Felix  would  be  with 
her  by  the  dawn,  and  the  last  employment  of  her  thoughts  was 
to  imagine  for  him  excuses  ;  to  frame  some  probable  cause  for 
his  delay,  which  should  make  up  to  her  tenfold  for  this  day's 
disappointment  by  the  additional  prospect  of  happiness  in  store 
for  her  upon  the  morrow. 

She  was  awakened  by  the  clatter  of  horse's  hoofs  at  the  early 
dawn  of  morning.  Starting  up,  she  flew  to  her  little  window, 
and  saw — not  the  brown  horse  that  carried  Felix  coming  up 
to  the  garden  gate — but  the  broad,  black  flanks  and  flapping 
tail  of  Dr.  Glascock's  pony,  urged  down  the  road  at  a  quick 
pace. 

Her  screams  brought  in  Giacinta. 

"  Has  anything  happened  ?    Has  any  messenger  been  here  ?" 

"  No,  signorina.     E partita  di  buon  ora  il  Signor  Dottore." 

Day  of  agony  made  still  more  dreadful  than  the  dreadful 
yesterday,  by  glad,  bright,  mocking  sunshine ! 

About  three  o'clock  came  back  the  doctor.  He  dismounted 
at  the  gate,  came  into  the  house  slowly,  hung  up  his  hat  and 
cloak  on  their  accustomed  pegs,  walked  into  the  drawing-room 
had  not  dared  to  go  and  meet  him),  and  took  both  her 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  75 

hands  in  his.     She  saw  he  had  ill  news,  and  her  speech  failed 
her. 

"  He  was  a  traitor — worthless — unworthy,  my  poor  child. 
He  is  better  gone.  Don't  mourn  for  him,"  said  the  doctor. 

She  fell  senseless  on  the  floor — senseless  at  his  feet.  She 
read  the  certainty  of  her  fate  in  his  compassion.  It  was  hours 
before  she  could  make  inquiries,  or  would  suffer  herself  to  be 
told  that,  together  with  his  vows  to  her,  his  promises  to  the 
doctor,  he  had  broken  his  parole,  and  had  left  Malta,  no  one 
knew  how,  no  one  knew  whither.  His  horse  had  been  put  up 
in  a  stable  in  Valetta ;  no  accident,  therefore,  had  befallen  him, 
and  he  had  been  seen,  by  one  who  knew  him,  on  foot,  in  a 
retired  part  of  Floriana. 

Some  persons  remembered,  about  ten  o'clock,  a  bustle  in  the 
street,  but  the  night  was  dark,  and  to  those  who  looked  out  of 
their  windows,  all  was  undistinguishable. 

The  doctor  had  been  into  his  chamber  at  Citta  Vecchia.  No 
money  was  there,  and  he  was  known  to  have  received  of  Cap- 
tain Annesley,  the  day  before,  a  sum  not  inconsiderable. 

Dr.  Glascock  was  astonished  at  the  firmness  with  which  Bella 
insisted  on  her  right  to  investigate,  personally  and  thoroughly, 
all  that  made  against  her  lover.  £>he  went  with  him  next  day 
to  Citta  Vecchia  and  to  Valetta ;  visited  his  rooms,  questioned 
the  neighbors,  made  inquiries  on  the  Marina.  She  there 
learned  from  the  boatmen  the  agitation  of  Mr.  Grump  upon 
that  evening,  and  his  frantic  inquiries  after  a  Frenchman. 

A  glimmering  vision  of  the  truth  broke  in  upon  her.  "  We 
shall  have  certainty  when  Captain  Warner  comes  into  port," 
she  said  once  to  the  doctor.  But  she  seldom  spoke  to  others  of 
her  hope;  it  was  too  fragile  for  the  rough  touch  with  which 
they  handled  it ;  too  dear  to  be  profaned. 

The  excitement  that  had  sustained  her  in  the  first  days  of 
her  loss,  vanished  speedily  away.  The  affair  was  a  nine  days' 
wonder  in  Valetta ;  but,  though  the  admiral  and  governor  were 
very  angry,  and  the  French  prisoners  upon  parole  were  more 
strictly  watched  than  they  had  been  before,  all  interest  upon 
the  subject  was  exhausted  by  the  time  that  Captain  An- 
nesley, of  the  Sea  Gull,  sailed  to  join  the  Gibraltar  squadron. 


76  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

Those  around  Amabel  lapsed  into  their  usual  state  of  feeling, 
and  expected  her  to  do  the  same. 

But  in  vain ;  the  days  of  her  sweet  loving  trustfulness, — the 
days  of  her  first  youth  were  over.  Happen  what  might  around 
her  she  could  never  be  the  same  again.  Sometimes  a  burst  of 
passionate,  fierce  grief,  like  an  ocean-storm  in  suddenness  and 
fury,  \vould  take  the  doctor  by  surprise,  and  make  him  fear,  if 
not  for  her  reason,  for  her  future  peace.  He  was  wrong ;  it  is 
despair,  taking  the  common  form  of  indifference  of  heart,  that 
is  so  dangerous,  not  the  half-civilized  wild  cry  of  a  strong 
nature.  And  her  eyes  would  then  grow  bright  with  latent 
fever,  her  movements  would  be  hurried  and  impulsive,  her 
temper  capricious,  her  attention  difficult,  almost  impossible  to 
engage. 

To  this  mood  would  succeed  another — its  contre-coup,  its 
reaction — when  she  would  bitterly  bewail  her  starts  of  passion, 
and  think  of  herself  as  one  deserving  the  loss  of  every  blessing 
for  the  ingratitude  with  which  this  sorrow  was  received. 

Then  she  would  hide  her  troubles  in  her  heart,  and  try  to  go 
forth  as  she  had  done  in  her  days  of  hope  and  gladness,  to  in- 
terest herself  in  others'  griefs,  and  so  forget  her  own ;  but  the 
attempt  was  but  a  cold  effort  of  duty.  The  life  had  fled  from 
her  exertions ;  we  can  do  no  good  thing  to  others  when  we  seek 
them  for  our  own  sake,  and  the  remedy  must  fail  even  for  our- 
selves. 

Another  phase  in  her  distress  fell  temporarily  upon  her.  She 
recovered  herself  suddenly.  Her  step  regained  its  former  elas- 
ticity ;  her  lip  a  proud  and  fierce,  though  not  a  happy  smile. 
Her  eyes  still  burned  with  an  unusual  brightness,  but  a  droop- 
ing of  their  lids  sometimes  relieved  the  glare.  She  had  laid 
aside  her  sorrows  for  a  time,  and  had  resigned  herself  to  the 
conviction  that  Felix  must  be  trite.  That  her  trust  in  him  was 
too  strong  to  be  shaken  by  the  power  of  circumstances.  That 
he  must  come  back,  —what  matter  with  what  interval  of  years  2 
— to  explain  all  that  had  happened,  and  to  claim  her  love. 
In  the  midst  of  this  mood  of  feverish  hope,  the  Dodo  came 
back  into  the  harbor  of  Valetta.  It  was  October.  Dr.  Glas- 
cock  had  moved  his  household  to  the  city  to  meet  Mr.  Sibbes, 


AMABEL;    A  FAMILY  HISTORY.  77 

'  who  was  expected  home  from  Smyrna,  and  old  Giacinta  brought 
Amabel  word  the  moment  the  desired  vessel  was  made  out  from 
Fort  Riascoli.  Amabel  heard  her  with  an  unchanging  smile — 
without  interrupting  her  occupation.  The  doctor  had  gone  that 
morning  across  the  island.  All  day  she  betrayed  no  sign  of 
emotion  or  impatience. 

At  noon  Captain  Warner  was  announced.  She  received  him, 
and  entered  upon  the  usual  topics  of  the  day.  He  said  no- 
thing of  Felix.  Her  heart  began  to  fail  her,  and  she  had  less 
courage  than  ever  to  venture  the  inquiry ;  but  the  thought 
came  that  they  both  thus  cruelly  might  be  preparing  her  a 
surprise.  At  that  moment  Dr.  Glascock  entered.  "  Captain," 
he  said,  "  a  word  with  you,"  and  drew  him  apart  to  a  window. 
"I  am  anxious  to  inquire  whether  you  took  a  Frenchman, 
Captain  Guiscard,  to  the  coast  of  Sicily  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Girard  ?    I  did,  sir ;  a  mighty  pleasant  fellow." 

"  Was  he  your  only  French  passenger  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  with  surprise.  He  had  not  yet 
heard  of  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  his  rival. 

"  Favor  me  by  describing  Monsieur  Girard. " 

"  A  short  man,  middle-aged,  thick-necked,  with  a  wound  over 
his  left  eye." 

The  doctor  asked  no  more.  The  captain  turned  to  take  his 
leave.  Amabel  did  not  rise,  or  take  the  least  notice  of  his  de- 
parture. She  had  comprehended  the  conversation  ;  and,  when 
the  doctor  spoke  to  her,  she  looked  up  in  his  face  smiling,  and 
sat  playing  with  the  trimmings  that  were  sewn  upon  her  robe. 


Oh  !  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana. 
Oh  !  pale,  pale  face,  so  sweet  and  ineek, 

Oriana. 

Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 
What  wantest  thou  ?    Whom  dost  thou  seek, 

Oriana? 


From  that  time  not  a  word  escaped  her  on  the  subject  of  her 
sorrow.  Perhaps  sometimes  a  half  thought  of  reproach  to  Felix 
may  have  crossed  her  mind ;  but,  so  far  from  giving  utterance 


78  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

to  it,  the  dread  lest  her  changed  looks  should  seem  to  others  to 
reproach  him,  was  her  strongest  motive  for  exertion.  Oh !  the 
subtlaties  of  true  affection  !  How  into  the  least  of  things  creeps 
•woman's  love ! 

The  sun  of  her  existence  was  put  out.  She  was  groping  her 
way  in  life  through  darkness.  The  roses  in  the  crown  of  her 
youth  had  been  broken,  and  were  faded.  The  world  danced  oa 
around  the  shrine  of  hope,  but  she  had  drawn  back  into  soli- 
tude and  silence,  a  spectator  of  the  throng. 

Her  tears  fell  in  the  long  nights,  and  they  seemed  to  fall  in 
vain  ;  for,  as  yet,  they  watered  not  the  ground  for  the  reception 
of  a  better,  more  enduring  kind  of  household  love  and  trustful 
happiness.  'They  gushed  from  rock,  they  were  drunk  in  by  the 
sands  of  a  desert ;  for,  like  a  dusty  whirlwind  of  the  wilderness, 
this  sorrow  had  passed  over  her,  burying  the  bright  oasis  of 
her  life  in.  desolation.  No  pleasures,  no  remembrances,  no 
hopes,  no  fears,  and,  worst  of  all,  no  loving  interest  in  others, 
no  kind  affections  seemed  to  have  escaped  the  ruin.  Her  pas- 
sion had  drunk  up  the  streams  of  lovingness  that  had  fertilized 
her  life  and  watered  her  own  soul.  That  choked  or  flowing 
undergound,  she  had  none  left  for  others.  If  she  wept  for 
others'  griefs,  it  was  because  they  called  to  mind  her  own. 

And  the  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli  lay  at  anchor  in  the 
harbor  or  made  her  winter  voyages  to  Sicily ;  and  Mr.  Grump 
kept  his  own  counsel  during  the  few  days  the  Dodo  stayed  in 
port,  reflecting  that  nothing  called  on  him  to  declare  his  blun- 
der, and  that,  as  the  prisoner  had  not  been  returned  to  Malta, 
the  consequences  might  be  more  serious  than  he  had  at  first 
anticipated. 

As  the  spring  came,  Mrs.  Sibbes's  health  grew  worse.  Amabel 
watched  over  her,  and  waited  on  her  with  a  sort  of  mechanical 
attention.  She  had  an  affection  for  her  aunt,  but  it  was  not  of 
a  nature  to  attract  many  of  her  thoughts  from  the  absorbing 
subject  that  occupied  her  mind.  Yet,  when  the  sufferer  was 
dead,  and  she  knelt  beside  the  coffin,  her  grief  was  made  more 
bitter  by  the  reproaches  of  that  affection.  It  whispered  to  her 
night  and  day  that,  carefully  and  laboriously  as  her  daily  duties 
to  the  lost  had  been  performed,  her  heart  had  not  been  in  them. 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  .  79 

No  sooner  was  the  funeral  over  than  Mr.  Sibbes  resolved  to 
part  with  Amabel.  Business  called  him  to  the  East,  and  he 
could  not  leave  her  with  propriety,  under  the  care  of  the  doctor. 
He  would  have  preferred  that  she  should  marry  in  Malta  ;  but, 
as  she  showed  no  disposition  to  do  this,  he  determined  to 
return  her  to  her  mother's  care.  Lady  Karnac  was  living  at  a 
country  town  upon  the  eastern  coast  of  England  with  her  hus- 
band, Captain  Talbot,  and  her  children  by  this  marriage. 
Scarcely  anything  was  known  of  them  by  the  family  in  Malta, 
but  Mr.  Sibbes  wrote  word  he  should  be  with  them  speedily, 
and  sailed  for  England  with  his  niece  early  in  the  spring. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Dr.  Glascock  tried  every  means 
in  his  power  to  induce  her  to  remain  in  Malta ;  that,  in  short, 
he  pressingly  offered  himself  to  her,  and  that  this  offer  and  its 
rejection  caused  a  coolness  between  them.  The  doctor,  how- 
ever, says  nothing  on  either  of  these  points  in  his  narrative. 

With  the  restlessness  of  youthful  sorrow  (for  the  young  hope 
often  to  cheat  grief,  as  the  sick  cheat  pain,  by  a  change  of  posi- 
tion) Amabel  was  glad  to  go  to  England.  New  scenes,  new 
duties,  new  hopes,  and  new  relationships,  would  put  the  apathy- 
of  her  heart,  she  thought,  to  trial.  She  would  learn  thereby 
whether  her  life  was  to  be  henceforth  anything  more  than  one 
long,  vain  regret  for  the  loss  of  earthly  happiness,  and  whether 
there  were  other  things  worth  living  for  or  no. 


END    OF    PART    FIRST. 


DRAWN    CHIEFLY    FROM    AMABEL'S    OWN    LETTERS 
ADDRESSED    TO    CAPTAIN    WARNER. 


Yet  as  happiness  in  domestic  life  must  depend  mainly  on  the  personal  influences 
of  those  around  us,  our  power  of  cultivating  that  happiness  must  depend  Tery  consi- 
derably on  our  understanding  the  nature  of  such  influences.  With  partial  exception  it 
may  be  said  that  all  great  personal  influences  are  mutual,  and  are  derived  from  the 
sympathetic  power  which  we  have  for  the  expressed  feelings  of  another. — SPECTATOR) 
1847.  Article  on  the  Duchesse  de  Praslin. 


PART    II. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Sweet  flower  of  Hope  !  free  Nature's  genial  child, 

That  did'st  so  fair  disclose  thine  early  bloom, 

Filling  the  wide  air  with  its  rich  perfume, 

For  thee  in  vain  all  heavenly  aspects  smiled, 

From  the  hard  world  brief  respite  could  they  win  ; 
The  frost  nipped  sharp  without,  the  canker  preyed  within. 

COLERIDGE. 

"  I  HAVE  spoken  to  you  freely  of  what  I  felt  on  leaving  Malta," 
says  Amabel  herself,  in  a  letter  that  she  wrote  in  after  years 
to  Captain  Warner,  "  and  I  would  do  so  also  of  my  first 
impressions  of  England,  not  because  they  have  any  direct 
bearing  on  the  matter  immediately  before  us,  or  that  in  them- 
selves they  are  likely  to  afford  you  interest,  but  because  fully 
to  appreciate  my  position  in  the  new  home  to  which  my  duty 
called  me,  you  must  bear  in  mind  my  previous  way  of  life,  and 
the  circumstances  in  which  I  was  placed,  and  look  upon  the 
aspect  of  things  around  me,  less  as  they  really  were,  than  from 
the  point  of  view  in  which  it  was  natural  I  should  regard 
them." 

The  voyage  was  tedious,  and  without  events,  at  least  nothing 
that  she  saw  at  sea  made  any  powerful  impression,  but  her 
sensibilities  were  blunted  by  the  indulgence  of  her  sorrow,  and 
nothing  had  power  to  rouse  her,  save  to  a  sharper  poignancy 
of  regret. 

A  long  monotonous  sea  voyage  was  the  very  thing  for 
sobering  an  active  grief  into  a  settled  one ;  no  one  on  board 
claimed  any  of  her  sympathy,  she  asked  for  none  of  theirs, 
still,  as  the  only  lady  in  the  vessel,  she  was  petted  and  courted, 
as  had  always  been  the  case,  but  nothing  whispered  that  it 


84  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

was  the  last  time  in  her  life  she  should  be  spoiled  to  give  it 
value,  and  these  advantages  in  her  position  made  at  that 
time  little  impression. 

They  stood  along  the  English  coast  for  two  days  after  enter- 
ing the  Channel ;  on  the  third,  being  close  in  shore,  a  fishing 
boat  came  oft'  to  them.  They  were  opposite  to  the  little 
town  of  Worthing,  and  Mr.  Sibbes  resolved  to  land.  The 
ship  lay  to  ;  they  were  shifted  with  their  luggage  into  the  fish- 
ing boat,  and  the  ship  stood  on  her  course  towards  the 
Downs. 

Worthing  was  an  insignificant  collection  of  fishermen's  huts 
at  that  period ;  one  long  thin  line  of  better  houses  only,  loom- 
ing out  of  the  morning  haze.  Half  a  mile  from  shore  the 
boat  of  the  customs  came  off  to  meet  them,  and  with  wetting, 
confusion,  swearing,  and  not  without,  on  the  part  of  the  fishing 
craft,  what  Mr.  Sibbes  damned  as  "  English  extortion,"  they 
were  transferred  into  her.  Bella  was  carried  ashore  through 
the  surf  on  the  stout  back  of  an  amphibious  animal  in  jack- 
boots, whether  man  or  woman  she  never  could  determine. 
Another  plucked  the  earings  from  her  ears,  a  third  soused  her 
carpet-bag  in  the  water,  and  when  they  found  themselves  on  Eng- 
lish ground  under  an  escort  of  the  revenue  officials,  Mr.  Sibbes 
dragging  her  by  the  hand,  pushing,  swearing,  and  pursued  for 
sixpences,  she  was  roused  to  sensations  that  were  extremely 
disagreeable. 

"  Cramped,  cabined,  and  confined "  in  an  inn  parlor,  the 
curtains  of  which  had  not  been  taken  down  for  half  a  century, 
harboring  dust  and  fusty  smells,  a  smouldering  fire  smoking 
on  the  hearth — for  though  the  month  was  June,  the  town  was 
dampened  by  a  dreary  drizzle — the  luggage  gone  in  a  taxed 
cart  to  be  examined  at  the  Custom  House  at  Brighton — for 
contrary  to  the  information  of  the  fishermen,  there  were  only 
officials  and  not  offices  at  Worthing — and  with  a  scanty  English 
breakfast  (thin  chips  of  dry  crisp  toast,  black  tea,  and  an  egg 
apiece  before  them),  things  looked  to  her  (though  English 
people  might  have  called  them  snug)  neither  liberal,  inviting, 
nor  comfortable. 

The  luggage  w;\s  kept  a  whole  day  at  Brighthelmstune.     Mr. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  85 

Sibbes,  an  easy  man  abroad,  could  not  resist  the  influences  of 
the  climate,  and  a  fit  of  English  fussiness  took  hold  upon  him. 
At  day-break  Amabel  was  called.  The  morning  happened  to 
be  fine,  the  country  was  green  and  beautiful.  They  put  her 
into  an  old-fashioned,  rattling,  awkward,  fusty,  rickety  post- 
chaise,  which  Mr.  Sibbes  agreed  to  share  in  a  proportion  of 
two  thirds  with  a  gentleman  of  Worthing,  so  Bella  rode  bod- 
kin all  that  day  to  London,  along  a  road  diversified  by  English 
country  seats  and  English  commons. 

She  remarked  the  deference  paid  to  their  gentry  by  all  the 
inn  people  with  whom  she  came  in  contact  during  that  day's 
journey,  nor  had  she  ever  occasion  to  alter  the  opinion  then 
formed,  that  amongst  the  English  peasantry  and  the  class 
immediately  above  them,  less  real  independence  of  opinion 
than  amongst  all  other  civilized  people  is  to  be  found.  Every 
man,  while  following  the  occupations  of  his  class,  tries  to  adopt 
the  manners  and  opinions  of  the  class  above  him.  For  which 
reason  it  is  easy  on  occasion  to  lead  the  entire  English  nation 
by  the  nose.  • 

On  the  whole,  the  great  impression  made  upon  her  mind  was 
that  smallness  indicated  restraint,  and  that  mutual  dependence 
made  classes  look  selfishly  upon  each  other,  instead  of  being 
the  guarantee  of  feelings  more  kindly. 

London  was  hot  and  hateful.  They  spent  a  night  there,  and 
the  next  day  journeyed  by  coach  into  the  eastern  counties.  Mr. 
Sibbes  rode  outside,  Amabel  within.  The  morning  had  been 
fair — the  afternoon  proved  rainy.  The  perfect  travelling  ar- 
rangements, the  smoothness  of  the  roads,  the  greenness  of  the 
country,  struck  her  much  ;  but  she  probably  made  few  general 
reflections,  unless  it  may  have  been  on  the  condition  of  society 
in  England  as  typified  by  a  fat  woman,  her  companion,  whose 
talk  was  all  of  lords,  which  made  her  fellow-traveller,  who  carried 
in  her  bag  a  volume  of  Evelina,  imagine  her  some  member  of 
the  aristocracy  of  England,  so  much  were  the  private  affairs  and 
family  histories  of  persons  of  that  class  at  her  tongue's  end. 
The  other  two  places  were  filled  and  emptied  at  most  of  the 
chief  towns,  sometimes  by  country  gentlemen  with  white-top 
boots  and  strangely  florid  facos,  once  by  a  man  disposed  to  be 


86  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

disagreeably  familiar,  and  several  times  damp  children  were 
thrust  in,  whose  friends  were  slowly  soaking  in  the  rain  out- 
side. 

It  was  dark  without,  weary  within ;  the  lamps  were  lighted 
and  the  streets  were  sloppy  when  they  drove  into  the  county 
town,  half  a  seaport,  yet  not  correctly  so,  for  its  boats  are 
launched  upon  fresh  water,  where,  for  some  years,  the  mother 
of  Amabel  had  been  living,  together  with  her  second  family. 
The  communication  between  mother  and  child  had  been  so 
much  interrupted,  -that  Amabel  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
present  circumstances  of  the  family  ;  judging,  however,  from  all 
that  she  had  heard  of  her  mother  at  the  time  of  her  second 
marriage,  she  fancied  they  must  be  people  of  consideration,  and 
live  in  style.  At  the  inn,  where  the  coach  stopped,  her  uncle 
Sibbes's  good-natured  face  appeared  at  the  coach  door.  She 
had  been  more  drawn  towards  him  during  that  day's  journey 
than  in  all  her  life  before. 

"  Get  out,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  and  come  into  the  coffee- 
room.  I  have  made  an  arrangement  with  the  coachman  to  take 
off  his  leaders  and  take  us  on.  They  live  in  St.  Clement's,  half 
a  mile  through  the  town.  I  shall  order  my  supper ;  for  they 
won't  want  me  with  them  at  your  first  meeting.  I  am  no 
favorite  of  your  mother's,  nor  is  she  of  mine." 

These  were  the  first  words  she  had  ever  heard  her  uncle  say 
about  her  parents.  She  looked  round  the  cheerful  coffee-room, 
and  almost  wished  to  stay  and  share  the  steak  she  heard  him 
order. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  coming  back  to  the  box,  where  she  stood 
patiently.  "  My  dear,"  fumbling  in  his  pocket-book,  "  if  you 
don't  find  yourself  comfortable  amongst  your  friends,  my  advice 
to  you  is — marry.  You  may  let  the  world  know  that  your 
marriage  portion  from  me  will  be  £10,000  ;  that  will  procure 
you,  any  day,  plenty  of  suitors.  Take  this,  my  dear,"  he  added, 
pressing  a  £20  bank-note  into  her  hand.  "  You  may  want  it 
where  you  are  going." 

She  threw  herself  upon  his  neck ;  she  wept  bitterly.  She 
regretted  she  must  leave  him ;  she  felt  afraid  of  all  that  was  to 
come.  He  was  flustered  by  the  action,  and  disengaged*  her 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  §7 

arms.  At  that  moment  the  coachman  called.  She  was  put 
into  the  coach  again,  and  they  rattled  with  weary  horses  over 
the  rough  pavement  of  the  back  streets  of  the  town.  They 
stopped  at  a  green  door  ;  her  uncle  Sibbes  rang,  and,  after  an 
interval,  a  maid  in  pattens,  holding  up  her  clothes,  came  down 
the  sloppy  flags  and  admitted  them  through  the  gate  into  the 
garden. 

"  Go  in,  child,"  said  her  uncle.  "  The  coachman  and  I  will 
bring  your  things  in  after  you." 

Springing  past  the  maid,  Amabel  ran  into  the  house  through 
the  wet  garden,  dashed  into  the  first  room  that  was  at  hand, 
and  came  upon  the  family. 

"  Gracious  me !"  exclaimed  her  mother.  "  Who  are  you  ?  I 
thought  it  was  Captain  Talbot." 

Bella  made  her  understand  who  she  was ;  she  clasped  her 
in  her  arms,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  remembrance,  her 
heart  beat  against  the  heart  of  her  mother. 

The  letter  of  Amabel  dwells  upon  the  first  days  of  her  arrival 
in  England,  as  though  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  linger  over  her 
last  recollections  of  her  uncle  Sibbes,  but  she  grows  less  diffuse 
at  this  point  of  her  narrative.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  something 
pained  her,  and  we  gather  that  the  first  cause  of  her  distress 
was  the  cavalier  reception  bestowed  on  Mr.  Sibbes. 

The  trader,  however,  with  a  pride  of  his  own,  had  no  inten- 
tion of  staying  long  to  be  made  uncomfortable  by  Lady 
Karnac's  airs  and  insolence-  He  saw  his  niece's  things  safely 
deposited ;  wrung  her  hand  ;  she  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  and,  in  another  moment,  he  was  gone.  Years  and  years 
passed  before  they  met  again ;  and,  ere  they  did  so,  if  we 
measure  age  by  our  experience  in  sorrow,  she  was  far  the  older 
of  the  two.  Lady  Karnac  was  still  a  handsome  woman,  with 
beautiful  hair,  a  slight  lisp,  constant  complaints  of  ill  health, 
and  an  expression  of  peevishness.  She  had  been  a  great  belle 
in  her  day,  loved  flirting  and  gay  parties,  saw  no  medium 
between  flauntiness  in  dress  and  dowdiness,  and  could  not  for- 
give her  husband,  whose  taste  for  speculation  had  dissipated 
their  fortune,  and  had  brought  her  down  from  the  high  estate 
where  she  was  fitted  to  shine  triumphantly,  to  live  in  a  back 


88  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

street  of  a  small  commercial  town,  where  he  held  a  patent  in  a 
manufactory. 

They  had  four  children.  Olivia,  the  eldest,  a  large  girl  of 
fourteen,  with  a  heavy  looking  face,  of  which  the  expression  of 
sullen,  settled  ill-temper  never  varied.  Almost  idiotic  as  she 
looked,  she  had  the  influence  of  a  strong  will  over  her  mother, 
a  sagacity  which  always  showed  her  an  advantage,  and  a  per- 
severance which  enabled  her  to  keep  her  ends  in  view,  and  to 
accomplish  them.  Annie,  the  second  daughter,  was  a  sickly 
child,  cowed  by  her  sister,  made  fretful  by  constant  ailments, 
and  obstinate  and  shy  by  the  excess  of  her  timidity.  Edward 
was  the  pickle  of  the  family ;  too  audacious  to  be  kept  under 
by  Olivia,  too  good  at  heart  for  her,  as  yet,  to  spoil.  Little 
Joseph  was  the  baby. 

When  people  meet  who  ought  to  be  intimate,  yet  have  not 
seen  each  other  for  half  their  lives,  they  have  nothing  to  say. 
There  is  no  common  point  of  interest  from  which  to  start  a 
conversation,  unless  by  bringing  forward  things  set  generally 
out  of  sight  as  too  precious  for  common  handling. 

Olivia  rang  the  bell  with  authority,  and  ordered  tea.  It  was 
a  long  time  coming,  though  she  left  the  room  to  worry  the 
slowness  of  their  servant  of  all-work,  and,  when  it  did  make  its 
appearance,  the  smoked  and  tepid  water,  the  stale  half  loaf  of 
knobby  bread,  the  children's  clamor  and  untidy  way  of  eating, 
Olivia's  and  the  mother's  slaps  and  scoldings,  took  the  elder 
sister's  appetite  away.  Alas  !  in  her  secret  thoughts,  she  could 
not  help  contrasting  that  comfortless,  noisy,  miserable,  tea-table, 
with  the  peace  and  plenty  of  her  Maltese  house. 

By  ten  o'clock,  after  the  servant  had  taken  off  the  children, 
Captain  Talbot's  knock  was  heard  at  the  hall  door.  He  was  a 
gentlemanly  man,  of  middle  height,  with  a  slightly  bald,  and 
high,  retreating  forehead.  He  received  Amabel  with  much 
kindness  and  cordiality,  entering  into  conversation,  and  asking 
her  questions  upon  Malta,  the  relations  she  had  lived  with,  and 
her  voyage,  with  the  ease  and  tact  of  a  man  of  the  world. 

Amabel  felt  more  at  her  ease  than  she  had  yet  done  in  her 
new  home. 

Why  should  we  linger  over  the  life,  to  which  this  was  the 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  89 

prophetic  introduction  ?  It  is  sad  to  trace  the  shadows  creep- 
ing over  a  young  and  happy  spirit,  the  growth  of  selfish  feel- 
ings and  their  attendant  evil  thoughts,  in  the  mind  of  one  un- 
used by  nature  or  experience  to  be  neglected  or  unloved.  She 
was  the  one  too  many  everywhere.  There  was  no  place  for  her 
in  their  hearts ;  there  seemed  no  duties  for  her  in  their  home. 
So  soon  as  she  attempted  to  win  her  way  into  the  affections  of 
the  children,  or  to  be  useful  to  her  mother,  or  to  protect  little 
Annie,  to  whc^  she  "  took  "  in  preference  to  them  all,  Olivia's 
watchful  jealousy  strewed  briers  in  her  path,  and  some  outbreak 
of  bad  feeling  upon  her  part  awakened  echoes  in  her  sister's 
mind.  She  never  was  alone  ;  for  she  shared  the  sleeping-room 
of  Olivia,  and  could  not  even  lay  her  head  upon  her  pillow 
and  secretly  weep  bitter  tears  for  her  lost  happiness  ;  Olivia's 
ear  was  swift  to  hear,  and  those  cutting  taunts  which  it  is  be- 
neath us  to  revenge,  but  which  the  greatest  and  most  patient 
are  not  too  great  nor  too  patient  to  feel,  were  the  price  she  paid 
for  even  this  melancholy  species  of  relief.  Or  worse,  her  mother 
would  be  informed  of  these  repinings,  and  would  take  advan- 
tage of  their  next  disagreement  to  inform  her  that,  if  she  was 
too  fastidious  to  be  satisfied  with  her  relations,  she  had  better 
seek  another  home,  or,  better  still,  have  stayed  in  Malta. 

The  twenty-pound  note  hep  uncle  Sibbes  had  given  her 
formed  her  greatest  consolation.  As  long  as  it  lasted  she  was 
able,  by  little  presents,  to  gain  favor  even  with  Olivia,  to  pro- 
cure books  for  herself  and  various  little  comforts,  and  lighten,  in 
many  ways,  the  lot  of  their  poor  servant  girl.  But  twenty 
pounds  is  far  from  inexhaustible,  and,  by  Christmas,  it  was 
spent,  leaving  her  without  pocket  money,  and  dependent  on  her 
mother's  purse  even  for  her  clothes.  Then  it  was  she  learned 
the  value  of  money,  and  felt  as  if  an  ample  fortune  would  almost 
of  itself  suffice  to  make  her  happy. 

Her  ideas  of  happiness  were  now  much  changed,  from  what 
they  were  in  better  times.  To  "  flee  away  and  be  at  rest"  from 
the  wear  and  tear  of  evil  feelings,  excited  or  endured ;  to  bo 
free  again  to  do,  or  think,  or  weep,  or  speak,  and  not  under 
thraldom  to  Olivia ;  to  have  power  to  help  the  suffering ;  to  be 
placed  in  a  position  where  her  enjoyment  of  even  the  lesser 


90  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

things  of  life  might  be  unmarred  by  a  conflict  of  feelings,  now 
seemed  to  her  a  degree  of  happiness  she  never  should  enjoy. 
And  after  every  annoyance,  every  quarrel,  or  humiliation,  her 
tears  flowed  faster  from  the  thought,  that  had  Felix  been  true  to 
her,  these  things  would  not  have  been. 

Yes,  she  distrusted  Felix ;  that  sorrow  was  the  worst  of  all. 
She  was  growing,  as  Dr.  Glascock  had  once  prophesied,  "  sel- 
fish, jealous,  and  covetous,  after  her  kind."  She  had  been 
suddenly  plunged  into  the  responsibilities  of  new  relationships. 
She  was  not  gently  or  lovingly  initiated  into  them.  She  was 
not  called  to  fulfil  active  duties,  but  to  take  up  passively  the 
heavy  burden  of  life.  Her  service  was  onerous,  her  position 
distasteful  to  her.  There  was  no  well-spring  of  lovingness  left 
within,  her  heart,  her  affection  for  Felix  G-uiscard  had  exhausted 
it.  Earth  no  longer  seemed  to  her  like  the  great  moving  ocean, 
which  must  be  governed  by  some  law  harmonious  and  good, 
though  yet  unknown  to  her ;  but  cold,  hard,  dry,  a  round  of 
petty  grovelling  cares,  endurances,  and  duties,  to  which  she 
had  no  clue. 

She,  the  spoiled  child  of  Dr.  Glascock,  whose  very  caprices 
were  looked  on  as  endearing,  whose  wilfulness  was  tolerated, 
whose  love  made  many  happy,  had  now  no  kind  word  said  of 
her,  save  by  one  who  had  no  influence  in  the  contracted  circle 
to  which  her  existence  was  confined.  It  was  her  step-father, 
Captain  Talbot,  who  remarked  sometimes  to  his  wife,  when  she 
was  peevish  with  her  eldest  child :  "  Poor  thing,  there  seems 
no  harm  in  her,  she  looks  to  me  very  quiet  and  inoffensive  ;  but 
I  agree  with  you,  I  wish  she  were  well  married  with  all  my 
heart,  my  dear." 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  91 


CHAPTER  II. 

She  will  weep  her  woman's  tears, 
She  will  pray  her  woman's  prayers, 
But  her  heart  is  young  in  pain, 
And  her  hopes  will  spring  again 

By  the  suntime  of  her  years. 

E.  BARRETT  BHOWNINO. 

THE  society  of  the  country-town  in  which  Amabel  found  her- 
self, was  no  less  distasteful  to  her  than  the  interior  of  her  home. 
But  had  she  been  older  in  years,  or  in  experience,  and  personally 
independent  of  that  society  and  its  influences,  it  might  have 
afforded  her  amusement  to  watch  the  oddness  of  the  elements 
of  which  it  was  composed. 

A  country-town,  even  twenty  years  ago,  before  the  age  of 
railroads,  was  a  rich  museum  of  human  curiosities.  The  young 
student-artist  of  character  could  have  found  no  better  model- 
room.  But  Bella  only  reflected  that  these  were  the  people 
amongst  whom  her  life  was  to  be  passed ;  she  had  nothing  in 
common  with  them,  not  an  idea,  an  interest,  or  aim.  It  was  a 
forced  alliance  upon  her  part ;  had  they  appeared  in  any  way 
dependent  upon  her  exertions  for  their  self-esteem  or  their 
amusement,  her  better  feelings  would  have  prompted  her  to 
meet  the  obligation  ;  as  it  was,  she  thought  it  not  worth  while 
to  find  pleasure  or  improvement  in  her  intercourse  with  them. 

There  was  old  Miss  Maddox,  driven  sometimes  into  their 
society,  when  there  were  no  card  parties  in  more  fashionable 
quarters,  by  mere  stress  of  ennui;  and  big  Mrs.  Bathurst, 
whose  husband  died  of  care  and  curry,  a  colonel  in  the  East 
Indies,  who  exacted  a  deference  and  attention  on  the  ground  of 
her  father  having  been  an  honorable,  which  it  was  positive 
humiliation  to  their  society  to  pay.  She  had  a  niece  who 
lived  with  her,  who  wore  long  ropy  ringlets,  was  kept  in  abject 
subjection  by  her  aunt,  and  consoled  herself  for  her  home  mise- 
ries by  looking  out  for  admiration  amongst  the  officers  in  gar- 


92  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

rison.  No  regimental  gossip  was  unknown  to  this  young  lady, 
who  called  all  the  gentlemen  by  their  surnames,  and  spoke  fa- 
miliarly of  "  the  men,"  meaning  the  private  soldiers.  Nor  did 
Bella  see  anything  to  interest  her  in  the  clergyman's  wife,  a 
country-bred  young  woman,  with  lots  of  children  and  of  parish 
business  always  accumulating  on  hand. 

The  Talbots  had  withdrawn  in  a  great  measure  from  society ; 
for  in  England  one  must  regulate  the  circle  in  which  one  moves, 
by  one's  pecuniary  ability  to  cope  with  those  composing  it,  and 
these  persons,  who  for  purposes  of  their  own  found  their  way 
into  St.  Clement's,  were  nearly  all  with  whom  they  visited,  save 
that  Captain  Talbot  had  a  professional  acquaintance  with  Ad- 
miral Sir  Jeremiah  Thompson,  a  triton  amongst  the  minnows 
of  their  little  society,  who  mvited  them  to  a  state  dinner  once 
a  year,  to  feed  them  off  of  plate,  and  would  have  considered 
himself  ineffably  insulted  by  being  asked  to  eat  off  of  stone- 
ware in  return.  Bella  only  perceived  that  the  idee  fixe  of  all 
the  persons  that  she  met  was  a  holy  hatred  of  the  French,  and 
that  a  man  was  held  an  infidel  except  he  acknowledged  a  be- 
lief in  every  malicious  calumny  then  in  circulation  against  the 
"  Corsican  monster."  Conversation  amongst  them  never  grew 

O  O 

exciting,  save  when  they  compared  their  interpretations  of  the 
prophecies  against  him  as  the  Beast  of  the  Revelation,  or  Da- 
niel's little  horn.  Dr.  Glascock  had  early  prejudiced  her  mind 
against  the  English,  and  she  could  not  see  the  intrinsic  excel- 
lences of  character,  national  and  individual,  that  lay  beneath 
the  surface  both  of  society  and  manners.  The  exterior  dis- 
gusted her,  and,  poor  thing,  she  was  too  unhappy  to  look 
deeper.  No  mere  stranger  and  sojourner  can  understand  Eng- 
land or  like  its  people.  He  must  live  amongst  them,  associate 
himself  with  their  interests,  work  with  them,  feel  with  them, 
hope  with  them,  in  short,  f/row  English,  before  he  will  have  the 
least  idea  of  their  real  excellences.  The  things  a  foreigner  most 
generally  admires  in  a  six  weeks'  stay  in  London  in  the  season, 
are  precisely  the  "  evidence  of  things  unseen,"  of  which  the  true 
Englishman  is  the  least  proud. 

As  spring  advanced,  there  began  to  be  talk  amongst  the  gay 
people  of  the  town  about  the  Easter  Ball.  Peace  had  been 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  93 

proclaimed.  London  was  getting  ready  for  the  visit  of  the 
allied  sovereigns,  money  was  plenty,  all  England  was  beside 
itself;  brothers  and  beaux  were  expected  home  from  .foreign 
wars,  or  naval  stations ;  and,  Mrs.  Beamish,  who  had  always 
young  persons  to  recommend  to  places,  county  poets  with  books 
to  be  got  out,  and  loads  of  lotteries  and  raffles,  exerted  herself  on 
behalf  of  the  society  for  the  relief  of  seamen's  widows,  to  get 
up  a  subscription  ball.  Lady  Karnac,  who  could  ill  afford  it, 
was  pressed  into  taking  four  tickets,  at  a  guinea  each — the  Cap- 
tain, herself,  Amabel,  and  Olivia  were  to  go. 

The  white  dress  of  Amabel  was  prepared.  Weary  of  work 
and  sick  at  heart,  for  the  morning  had  been  one  of  continued 
fretfulness  and  dissension,  she  offered,  about  four  o'clock,  to 
take  the  children  for  a  walk  along  the  London  road. 

It  was  a  dreary  expedition.  She  set  out,  thinking  with  what 
expectations  of  delight  she  had  looked  forward  two  years  be- 
fore to  her  first  ball  at  Malta.  "  Then  there  were  so  many  to 
be  proud  of  me  and  love  me."  That  thought  crowned  every 
bitterness,  and  in  spite  of  all.  her  efforts  her  tears  flowed 
silently,  starting  fresh  thoughts  of  Felix  and  of  Malta.  She 
was  very  unhappy.  Peace  was  proclaimed  ;  a  year  and  a  half 
since  they  last  met  had  passed,  and  yet  no  news  of  him  had 
reached  her. 

"  Stand  back,  children,  and  see  the  coach  come  over  the 
bridge,"  she  cried,  drawing  them  aside,  as  the  sound  of  the 
guard's  horn  reached  her.  Over  it  came,  with  its  four  shining 
brown  horses,  thin  but  sinewy,  scenting  their  stable  from  afar, 
and  putting  new  life  and  energy  into  their  exertions.  It  passed. 
A  gentleman  on  the  box  seat  looked  back.  A  few  yards  fur- 
ther it  pulled  up  abruptly.  The  gentleman  got  down,  tossed 
his  half-crown  to  the  coachman,  and  joined  them.  It  was 
Captain  Warner. 

How  full  of  warmth  was  his  first  greeting !  How  cordially 
he  shook  her  by  the  hand  !  How  readily  he  praised  the  chil- 
dren !  How  he  answered  all  her  hurried,  eager  questions  about 
Malta ;  not  that  he  had  been  there  lately,  for  he  had  been  cruis- 
ing with  the  Gibraltar  squadron ;  but  he  could  talk  of  old 
times,  and  of  old  scenes,  and  call  back  pleasant  reminiscences. 


94  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

By  the  time  he  left  her  at  her  own  door,  she  had  learned  that 
his  ship  having  been  paid  off,  he  had  gained  his  post  rank,  had 
come  down  on  a  visit  to  the  admiral,  and  would  meet  her  at 
the  ball. 

With  very  different  feelings  from  those  with  which  she  had 
looked  forward  to  that  evening,  did  she  now  put  on  her  plain 
white  dress,  and  wistfully  gaze  mto  her  little  looking-glass, 
marking  the  changes  Time  had  made  in  her  young  features,  and 
regretting  the  loss  of  the  fresh  bright  complexion  that  had 
paled  since  she  left  Malta. 

What  a  new  feeling  of  pride  and  of  protection  it  gave  her 
to  find  him  waiting  for  her  at  the  door  of  the  cloak  room  !  She 
felt  that  she  was  not  so  very  isolated,  when  she  introduced  him 
as  her  friend  to  her  mother  and  Captain  Talbot ;  and  when  she 
entered  the  ball-room  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  he  had  got  a 
smart  young  ensign  to  be  the  partner  of  Olivia,  she  felt  her 
consequence  increased  by  his  attentions,  and  knew  they  would 
ameliorate  her  position  at  home.  Captain  Warner  was,  as 
sailors  mostly  are,  a  spirited  Terpsichorian  ;  and  this  evening, 
being  in  a  state  of  high  excitement,  he  outdid  himself  in  his 
exertions. 

"  Make  way,  there,  for  the  gallant  captain,"  many  cried, 
as  he  came  down  the  middle,  ably  seconded  by  his  now  bloom- 
ing, smiling,  animated  partner. 

"  We'll  show  you  how  to  do  it,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Miss  Kar- 
nac  and  I  will  show  you  how  they  do  these  things  in  style  in 
Malta." 

It  was  the  first  time  her  residence  abroad  had  been  men- 
tioned in  England  to  her  honor. 

After  the  dance,  he  led  her  up  the  room  to  introduce  her  in 
form  to  Lady  Thompson.  The  Captain,  though  destitute  of 
worldly  tact,  had  insured  her  kind  reception  by  telling  her 
ladyship  at  dinner  that  he  was  going  to  dance  the  first  dance 
with  a  pretty  girl-  with  a  large  fortune.  She  held  Amabel  affec- 
tionately by  the  hand,  and  hoped  she  should  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  her  young  friend  at  a  dinner  party  next  week,  with 
her  father  and  mother. 

The  captain  was  too  ingenuous  to  keep  his  knowledge  of  his 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  95 

pretty  partner's  money  to  himself,  and  soon  the  room  was  talk- 
ing of  "  that  lovely  girl  and  her  large  fortune."  Partners,  the 
elite  of  the  garrison  and  of  the  townsmen,  contended  for  the 
honor  of  dancing  with  her,  but  in  the  midst  of  her  triumph 
her  constant  thought  was,  "  how  stupid  they  all  are  compared 
to  Captain  Warner."  At  the  end  of  every  dance  he  contrived 
to  find  himself  beside  her.  When  tea-tables  were  introduced 
into  the  ball-room,  he  waited  upon  her,  he  cloaked  her  care- 
fully in  the  passage  when  Lady  Karnac  insisted  on  going  home, 
and  she  got  into  the  carriage  with  a  confused  remembrance  of 
pleasant  things  said,  felt,  and  suggested,  and  with  a  crowd  of 
questions  on  her  mind  that  she  had  meant  to  ask  him. 

By  the  time,  however,  she  was  awake,  and  had  breakfasted, 
Captain  Warner  came  to  call,  full  of  hopes  that  she  had  spent 
a  pleasant  evening,  and  was  none  the  worse  for  her  exertions, 
and  with  proposals  for  a  morning  walk,  which  he  was  certain 
would  restore  her. 

To  be  sure  they  were  hampered  with  Olivia  and  the  children, 
but  the  Captain  would  break  off  in  the  midst  of  his  pleasant 
chat  with  Amabel,  to  run  after  "  the  young  rascals,"  and  set 
them  to  play  with  one  another. 

Olivia  remained  gloomy  and  silent ;  but  to  the  rest  of  the 
party,  the  walk,  which  led  them  along  the  river's  bank,  was 
most  delightful.  "So  different,"  thought  Amabel,  "to  our 
daily  dreary  promenades  up  and  down  the  rope  walk,"  where 
the  children  were  sent  out  to  take  exercise  during  the 
winter. 

The  admiral's  dinner,  too,  was  most  agreeable.  Lady  Kar- 
nac and  CaptaH  Talbot  met  quite  a  different  set  from  tho 
people  they  had  been  invited  with  before.  Captain  Warner 
sat  next  at  table  to  Amabel,  and  old  Lady  Thompson  in  the 
drawing-room  ventured  some  solemn  jokes  with  her  about  his 
admiration. 

He  expressed  a  wish  that  she  should  sing  when  the  gentle- 
men came  in  from  table,  and  instantly  the  old  Admiral  and 
his  lady  seconded  the  proposal.  She  sang  some  Breton  songs, 
and  her  piano  was  surrounded  by  gentlemen  applauding  the 
performance,  and  talking  with  her  of  things  abroad.  Captain 


96  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

Warner  said  something  in  reference  to  them  about  "  puppies," 
but  even  he  was  pleased  that  she  should  be  an  object  of  admi- 
ration. He  got  her  away  into  a  corner  soon,  however,  under 
pretence  of  examining  some  Chinese  curiosities,  and  talked  to 
her  about  his  place — the  Cedars. 

Days  rapidly  rolled  on ;  walk  succeeded  walk,  and  there 
were  several  more  parties.  Amabel  cared  not  to  examine  the 
state  of  her  own  heart.  She  only  knew  she  was  immeasurably 
happier  since  Captain  Warner's  arrival ;  that  his  attention 
was  something  she  possessed  all  to  herself,  independently  of 
Olivia;  that  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Bathurst  was  "dying  in  love" 
with  him ;  and  she  could  not  help  regretting  that  the  time  was 
drawing  near  for  his  departure. 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  Why  art  thon  weeping?"  maiden  mild, 

Said  a  Friar  Grey  to  a  lonely  child  ; 

"  I  weep  for  the  swallows  gone  over  the  sea, 

Who  used  to  come  and  be  fed  by  me." 

"  Then  dry  your  tears,"  said  the  Friar  Grey, 

"  They  will  all  come  back  in  the  month  of  May." 

"  Oh  !  tell  me,  Friar,"  the  maiden  cried, 

"  Why  my  sister  weeps  since  her  lover  died, 

Will  he  come  back  with  the  early  spring 

To  woo  his  bride  with  a  gay  gold  ring  ?" 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  child,  he  is  gone  for  aye  ;" 

"Will  my  sister's  life  have  another  May  '" 

PAWSEY'S  POCKET-BOO^OB  1847. 

WE  have  hurried  over  that  part  of  our  heroine's  history  when 
all  in  her  that  was  most  good  and  lovable  was  growing  stag- 
nant, for  want  of  a  free  course  amongst  the  barriers  that 
repressed  it.  But  all  is  changing  now,  or  on  the  eve  of  chang- 
ing. Captain  Warner  has  called  forth  pleasurable  feelings  and 
awakened  strong  emotions.  She  cannot  go  back  to  the  state 
of  apathetic  indifference  from  which  she  has  been  roused. 
His  departure  from  Admiral  Thompson's  was  fixed  for  the 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  97 

day  after  a  great  fancy  fair  which  was  to  be  held  in  the  Park  of  Sir 
Julius  Matthieson,  the  member  for  the  county.  All  the  neigh- 
borhood was  there ;.  all  the  county  people — persons  of  landed 
property,  who  would  have  scorned  any  association  with  the 
townspeople,  and  even  whilst  they  admitted  them  as  buyers  to 
the/efc,  kept  themselves  aloof  from  them. 

This  local  aristocracy  was,  however,  on  good  terms  with  Cap- 
tain Warner,  himself  the  heir  expectant  of  a  large  estate  in  the 
next  shire.  He  had  cordial,  pleasant  manners,  which,  in  addi- 
tion to  his  property  (his  card  of  admission  into  that  circle), 
enhanced  his  value  there,  and  made  him  welcome.  He  held  a 
private  license  as  a  single  man, — a  travelled  man,  and  (not 
being  of  that  county)  in  some  sort  as  a  foreigner,  under  which 
he  might  do  anything  he  pleased  ;  and  shake  off,  on  occasion, 
the  shackles  of  conventional  etiquette,  which  pinioned  nature  in 
that  treadmill  circle. 

He  very  soon  detached  Bella  from  Lady  Thompson,  and  went 
with  her  amongst  the  booths,  paying,  whilst  she  looked  at  the 
pretty  trifles,  a  sailor's  ready  compliments  to  the  pleased  but 
aristocratic  ladies  who  presided  at  each  table.  He  was  not  a 
person  who  required  any  great  amount  of  conversational  power 
on  another's  part  to  "  set  him  going."  If  he  was  in  good 
spirits,  and  he  found  his  earliest  sallies  well  received,  a  woman 
of  any  disposition  or  capacity  would  have  been  sure  to  find  him 
pleasant  and  agreeable. 

He  had  a  great  acquaintance  amongst  the  dowagers,  most  of 
whom  had  not  seen  him  since  he  became  a  widower,  and  were 
glad  to  welcome  back  his  attentions  and  his  rattle.  To  many 
of  these  great  1  Aes  he  introduced  our  Amabel ;  amongst  the 
rest,  he  made  her  known  to  Lady  Matthieson,  the  mistress  of 
the  mansion,  who  invited  them  to  go  into  the  house  to  a  colla- 
tion. 

Captain  Warner  had  one  idee  fixe  with  regard  to  social  cus- 
toms— that  an  old  lady  should  always  give  place  to  a  young 
one,  a  plain  to  a  pretty  woman.  He  carried  his  companion  up 
to  the  end  of  the  room,  amongst  the  highest  of  the  company, 
and  though  the  seats  of  honor  were  already  filled,  procured  her 
a  charming  place  at  a  little  side-table  just  fitted  for  two  persons, 

5 


D8  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

in  the  bend  of  the  window ;  saw  that  she  was  helped  the  first 
to  everything  ;  pledged  her  in  the  first  opened  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne, and,  strange  to  say,  gave  no  offence  to  any  of  the  com- 
pany, for  the  news  had  run  amongst  the  guests  that  she  was 
a  foreign  heiress,  the  elected  Mrs.  Warner.  "  Under  the  costliest 
embroidered  waistcoat  beats  a  heart,"  says  a  quaint  modern  phi- 
losopher ;  and  people,  however  stiff,  etiquettish,  and  unnatural, 
have  always  sympathy  with  the  progress  of  a  love  affair.  Cap- 
tain Warner,  but  just  returned  from  foreign  service,  had  slighted 
none  of  them  in  his  selection. 

The  pensive,  subdued  manners  of  his  bride  elect,  together 
with  her  pretensions  to  birth,  were  in  her  favor. 

"  Come,"  said  the  captain,  rising  from  his  seat  before  the  toasts 
were  given,  and  offering  her  his  arm.  She  rose,  and  they  step- 
ped out  of  the  long,  open  window  upon  the  mossy  lawn.  The 
kindly  wishes  of  many  of  the  guests  went  with  the  lovers. 

He  took  her  through  the  shrubberies,  away  from  the  crowd 
and  bustle  of  the  park,  across  a  little  bridge,  into  a  hayfield. 
The  laborers  had  left  their  work  half  done ;  their  hay -cocks 
were  still  standing.  Captain  Warner  selected  one  under  the 
shade  of  a  fine  elm,  on  the  slope  of  a  hill  near  the  Park  paling, 
and  made  a  fragrant  couch  in  the  sweet  new  hay  for  his  com- 
panion. She  sat  down  smiling,  closed  her  eyes,  and  leaned 
back,  giving  herself  up  to  the  sweet  and  peaceful  influences 
around  her.  The  sun  peeped  through  the  nodding  leaves  upon 
the  trembling  branches,  and  seemed  to  press  his  warm,  soft  kiss 
upon  her  eyelids,  whilst  he  called  up  a  brilliant  blush  on  her 
pale  cheek,  and  caused  her  to  shelter  her  sweet  face  from  his 
glances  with  her  hands.  Captain  Warner  thifcw  himself  beside 
her,  and,  lost  in  thought,  began  tossing  about  handfuls  of  the 
delicious  hay. 

Amabel  had  held  a  loving  intimacy  with  nature  in  her  hap- 
pier days.  Nearly  a  year  had  passed  since  she  had  wandered 
far  from  the  dull  and  dirty  precincts  of  that  country  town. 
The  peaceful  scene  around  her,  the  quiet,  the  seclusion,  brought 
back  the  saddening  memories  of  the  past ;  and,  bending  her 
head  down  in  the  hay,  she  found  relief  in  quiet  weeping.  A 
barrier  of  hay  hid  her  face  from  Captain  Warner,  who,  busied 


AMABXL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  99 

with  his  own  hesitations  on  the  eve  of  an  enterprise  important 
to  his  happiness,  did  not  perceive  her  tears. 

"  This  is  the  sort  of  day  which  ought  to  make  a  man  happy," 
he  began  at  length,  drawing  a  little  nearer. 

A  sigh  escaped  her,  and  was  echoed  by  the  captain,  as 
though  his  feelings  were  not  quite  in  unison  with  his  words. 

"  Beautiful !"  she  sard,  drying  her  eyes,  and  gazing  upward 
at  the  summer  sky  through  the  trembling  branches  of  the  elm 
that  threw  its  shadows  over  them. 

"  I  wish  it  might  make  me  happy,"  rejoined  Captain  Warner. 
He  put  aside  the  screen  of  hay  that  was  between  them  and 
stretched  his  arm  out  till  it  was  almost  around  her. 

An  instinct  prompted  Amabel  to  change  the  theme.  "All 
this  is  very  different,"  she  said,  "  from  the  rocky  aridity  of  the 
greater  part  of  Malta ;  but  not  unlike  our  own  sweet  vale  at 
Rarnalah.  That  lovely  valley  is  constantly  before  me,  even  in 
my  dreams." 

"  England  bears  away  the  bell,  however,  in  home  scenery," 
replied  the  Captain.  "  I  have  it  much  at  heart,  that  you  should 
grow  familiar  with  our  country  life  in  England." 

"I  could  grow  warmly  attached,  I  do  not  doubt,  to  any 
scene  so  beautiful  as  this.  But  I  have  never  till  to-day  been 
beyond  the  dirty  suburbs  of  the  town,  since  my  arrival." 

"  My  place,  '  The  Cedars,'  is  considered  very  beautiful,"  con- 
tinued Captain  Warner.  "  I  wanted  you  to  have  seen  it,  Miss 
Karnac,  before  addressing  you.  You  would  be  happy  there. 
I  would  shield  you  from  everything  painful  or  unpleasant.  I 
would  love  you — I  mean  rather,  I  do  love  you  as  truly  as  any 
woman  can  desire  to  be  loved.  The  Cedars  only  wants  a  pretty 
mistress.  I  have  a  sailor's  heart,  Miss  Belle ;  forgive  a  sailor's 
blunt  proposal.  Your  college  men  might  have  carved  out  their 
periods  with  more  eloquence,  but  by  no  one  could  you  be  more 
passionately  beloved." 

Bella  had  started  up.  The  Captain  threw  himself  forward, 
but  at  the  sight  of  her  face  he  too  sprang  to  his  feet.  Her 
lips  were  parted,  expressionless,  and  that  very  absence  of  all 
expression  sent  a  thrill  of  horror  to  his  soul.  Her  face  was 
pale ;  her  eyes,  red  with  her  previous  weeping,  wandered  wildly 


100  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

round  the  field,  as  if  in  search  of  friendly  aid.  Suddenly  they 
rested  on  the  ivied  village  church,  which  stood  at  the  bottom 
of  the  field,  parted  from  it  only  by  the  grave-ground.  "With  a 
cry  she  started  forward,  running  swiftly  towards  it.  In  vain 
Captain  Warner  followed  her,  imploring  her  to  compose  herself, 
to  go  back  to  the  house  with  him,  for  he  would  not  distress 
her — did  not  mean  to  say  another  word.  She  heard  not,  or 
she  did  not  heed  him.  Her  light  steps  were  as  quick  as  his, 
and  she  gained  the  churchyard  in  advance  of  him.  The 
church  door  happened  to  stand  open.  It  was  Friday,  cleaning 
day ;  she  flew  in,  and  sank  down,  clinging  to  the  rails  of  the 
altar.  Lonely  and  unhappy  one  !  it  was  as  if  failing  all  human 
sympathy,  all  human  friends,  she  had  flown  for  refuge  to  her 
Father  in  Heaven.  She  was  cruelly  ignorant,  as  we  have  said 
before,  of  even  the  first  principles  of  religion ;  but  there  is 
something  in  every  human  heart  which  vice  has  not  perverted, 
prompting  it,  in  the  extremity  of  sorrow  or  excitement,  to  turn 
aside  and  recognise  its  God. 

Captain  Warner  followed  her,  and  stooping  over  her, 
attempted  to  unclasp  the  fingers  she  had  wound  convulsively 
around  the  oaken  railing ;  her  head  was  leaning  on  the  velvet- 
covered  balustrade,  and  she  was  weeping  bitterly. 

"Dearest — my  dear  girl — get  up,  I  entreat  you.  Get  up. 
Come  away,"  he  repeated  again  and  again,  imploringly. 

"  No — no.  Go  away  !  Leave  me  !  Take  pity  on  me !" 
broke  from  her,  as  she  caught  breath  between  her  intervals  of 
sobbing. 

"  I  dare  not  leave  you  here ;  but  I  promise  not  to  speak  to 
you.  Get  up.  Take  my  arm,  my  dear  Miss  Belle.  Come 
'with  me,"  repeated  Captain  Warner. 

"  No — no.     Leave  me,"  continued  Bella. 

The  Captain,  totally  at  a  loss,  like  any  other  man  in  such  a 
case,  bethought  him  of  a  glass  of  water,  and  went  to  the  church 
door  to  look  for  some  neighboring  cottage.  By  the  time  he 
returned  with  some  water  in  a  tea-cup,  Bella  was  standing  up 
before  the  altar,  and  was  more  composed.  She  had  prayed  as 
she  knelt,  for  strength,  and  for  decision,  and  with  tho  prayer 
returned  her  self-possession. 


AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  101 

She  drank  some  of  the  water,  and  wetting  her  handkerchief 
with  it,  cooled  her  eyes  and  forehead. 

"  Shall  we  go  now  2"  said  the  Captain,  offering  her  his  arm. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  not  yet.  I  have  much  that  I  must  say 
to  you." 

"  Not  now ;  when  you  are  better." 

"  Yes,  now,'"  she  said,  with  energetic  determination.  "  Cap- 
tain "Warner,  you  have  been  very — very  good  to  me.  What 
must  my  conduct  seem  to  you  2" 

He  tried  to  soothe  her.     She  went  on. 

"  You  know  that  I  once  loved — loved  as  not  every  nature 
can  love.  See  !  I  am  not  ashamed  to  own  it.  And  with  my 
hope  there  fled  at  once  ray  early  peace  of  mind,  my  early 
bloom  of  youth,  my  early  capabilities  of  happiness.  Till  lately 
I  should  certainly  have  told  you,  that  all  power  to  love  again 
was  for  ever  dead  within  me.  Nor  do  I  love  again  !  I  do  not 
love  you,  Captain  Warner.  Not  as  I  could  once  have  loved- 
Not  as  you  yourself  would  wish  to  have  me  love.  But  some- 
thing lately,  sinc"e  you  have  been  so  much  with  us,  has  whis- 
pered in  my  heart  that  I  might  love  again — not  passionately 
perhaps — but  fondly,  gratefully — one  who  would  be  willing  to 
take  me  as  I  am — not  to  exact  too  much  from  me ;  who  would 
cherish  me,  and  bear  with  me,  as  a  loving  mother  bears  with  a 
suffering  child.  I  think  I  speak  the  truth  in  saying  thus.  I 
am  so  unhappy  here." 

"  But  this  is  all  I  ask  of  you,  dear  girl,"  said  Captain  War- 
ner, trying  to  draw  her  nearer  to  his  side.  "  I  have  no  fear 
but  that  in  a  little  time  you  will  get  over  the  past.  Your 
sufferings  at  your  age  have  been  too  much  for  you.  /  will 
cherish  you.  I  will  love  you — my  mother  too.  You  shall 
begin  life  with  us  over  again,  at  the  Old  Cedars." 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot ! — I  believe  you  and  I  trust  you ;  but 
I  cannot !"  she  cried,  starting  back  with  again  that  wandering 
look  of  pale,  unmeaning  horror.  "  If  Felix  were  to  come 
back,  even  years  hence,  could  I  love  you  ?  I  vowed  to  love 
him  all  my  life.  I  cannot  break  my  vow.  It  is  binding  till 
his  death  !  How  then  ....  Have  pity  on  me !  I  fancy  con- 
stantly I  see  him.  When  your  image  comes  before  me,  his  is 


102  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

always  there.  Dead  or  living,  it  would  give  him  pain  were  I 
ever  to  forget  him.  How  can  I  marry  you  ?"* 

"  He  is  dead.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Miss  Belle,"  cried  Cap- 
tain Warner,  eagerly. 

"  Dead  ?  Dead  ?  How  dead  ?  When  ?  Where  ?  How 
long  have  you  known  it,  Captain  Warner  ?" 

She  stood  up  erect  before  him.  Her  face  assumed  another 
expression.  Stern,  earnest,  fierce,  and  almost  threatening ;  as 
though  despite  her  eagerness,  she  warned  him  against  being  led 
astray  by  any  unworthy  rivalship,  in  what  he  answered  her. 

"  If  he  were  not  dead,"  he  said,  in  a  lower  tone,  and  as  if 
subdued  before  her,  "  he  must  have  broken  his  parole  when  he 
left  Malta.  Tell  me,  Miss  Belle,  in  that  case  would  you  not 
think  him  too  dishonorable  to  be  beloved !" 

"Annesley  is  now  in  Paris,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  after 
waiting  a  moment,  and  receiving  no  answer.  "If  I  write 
to-day  to  Annesley,  and  Annesley  discovers  that  his  name  is 
entered  on  the  Naval  Obituary  at  the  French  Admiralty,  will 
you  believe  me  then  \  If  he  is  dead,  Miss  Belle,  will  you  con- 
sent to  hear  me  ?  If  he  is  not  reported  dead,  then  I,  on  my 
part,  will  cease,  if  you  desire  it,  to  importune  you." 

"  Oh !  let  me  know  the  truth.  I  pray  you — I  implore  you, 
Captain  Warner !  I  promise  nothing,  for  I  cannot  promise, 
but  pity  me !  Be  generous,  as  I  am  sure  you  can  be.  Get 
certainty  for  me,  at  any  rate.  I  should  be  happier  with  cer- 
tainty, be  it  what  it  may." 

He  was  about  to  speak,  when  suddenly  the  words  were 
arrested  on  his  lips  by  the  swelling  notes  of  the  church  organ, 
and  sweet,  warbling  voices  of  the  village  children  chanting  their 
Sunday  hymn. 

Again  Amabel  knelt  down  on  the  stone  flooring  and  hid  her 
face  before  the  altar,  and  Captain  Warner  stood  beside  her, 
watching  the  colored  light  which  streamed  upon  her,  and  seemed 
to  form  a  carpet  for  her  kneeling  on  the  pavement ;  for  the  sun 
was  hastening  westward,  and  his  beams  cast  colored  shadows 
through  a  few  panes  of  stained  glass  spared  in  the  upper  divi- 
sion of  the  windows.  It  was  a  quiet  village  church,  no  longer 
greatly  decorated,  as  it  had  been  in  times  when  faith  impressed 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTOKY.  103 

its  semblance  upon  material  things,  or  rather,  feeling  borrowed 
a  material  expression.  Its  oaken  carving,  its  stained  glass,  and 
monumental  marbles,  had  been  replaced,  since  the  iconoclastic 
days  of  the  Long  Parliament,  by  whitewash,  deal,  and  window- 
panes  with  bulls'  eyes ;  but  it  was  still,  serene,  neat,  and  devo- 
tional. On  the  spot  where,  for  six  hundred  years,  the  weary  and 
the  suffering  had  knelt  to  pray  and  weep  whilst  in  the  body,  and 
where  each  villager  rested  for  the  last  time  in  his  coffin,  ere 
"  dust  to  dust,"  he  was  gathered  to  his  fathers,  Captain  Warner 
stood  beside  the  woman  that  he  loved,  who  was  silently  pray- 
ing. The  place  was  sad  and  calm,  and,  coupled  with  the  influ- 
ences of  the  music,  brought,  notwithstanding  the  exciting  nature 
of  their  recent  conversation,  a  sad  and  holy  calmness  into  both 
their  souls. 

She  rose  up  from  her  knees  at  length,  and  took  his  arm  in 
silence.  Nature  without  looked  calm,  and  spoke  the  lesson, 
that,  in  the  revolvings  of  time,  however  short,  joy  often  follows 
on  the  track  of  sadness,  encamping  on  the  very  spot  where 
traces  of  a  recent  grief  may  still  be  seen.  A  merry  party  of 
young  boys  were  shouting,  struggling,  and  tossing  about  the 
sweet,  new  hay  on  the  spot  where  they  had  sat,  under  the  old 
elm  tree ;  and  Bella,  as  they  paused,  was  pleased  to  see  the 
place  look  glad  again.  They  walked  on  through  the  shrubbe- 
ries, and  were  met  upon  their  way  by  Sir  Jeremiah  Thompson's 
servant,  sent  in  search  of  them.  They  hurried  on.  Admiral 
Thompson's  carriage  was  at  the  hall  door,  and  Lady  Thompson 
in  it  was  waiting  for  her  companion. 

The  captain  put  her  in,  and,  as  he  closed  the  door,  leaned 
forward  and  said,  "  God  bless  you !  I  shall  not  see  you  again 
till  I  have  had  an  answer." 

He  pressed  her  hand.  She  bent  forward  for  a  moment  as  the 
carriage  started,  and  a  tear  fell  upon  the  hand  he  had  laid  upon 
its  door. 

"What  were  her  feelings  ?  She  herself  would  have  been  puz- 
zled to  define  them.  Deep  gratitude  for  his  preference  and 
forbearance,  a  young  heart's  yearning  for  kindliness  and  affec- 
tion, a  pity  for  him  should  his  suit  with  her  not  prosper. 
Certainly  all  these  feelings  towards  him  argued  the  absence  of 
indifference,  but  also,  all  united,  they  were  not  exactly  love. 


104  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Grave  will  I  be 

And  thoughtful  ;  for  already  it  is  gone — 
God's  blessing  on  my  earlier  years  bestowed — 
The  clear  contentment  of  a  heart  at  ease. 
All  will  I  part  with  to  partake  thy  cares 
Let  but  thy  love  my  lesser  joys  outlast. 

PHILIP  VAN  ABTKVCLDI. 

WITH  her  heart  oppressed  and  her  brow  throbbing,  and  thoughts 
so  crowding  on  her  brain  that  they  seemed  too  closely  pressed 
together  for  any  one  to  struggle  itself  into  pre-eminence,  she  was 
set  down  at  the  garden  gate  of  her  dull  home  by  Lady  Thomp- 
son. 

The  immediate  consequence  of  the/ete  was,  that  a  number  of 
smart  carriages  were  seen  inquiring  their  way,  for  several  days 
afterwards,  to  St.  Clement's ;  and  that  the  people,  who,  out  of 
compliment  to  Captain  "Warner,  called  on  Lady  Karnac  and  her 
daughter,  went  away  with  a  very  changed  opinion  of  his  taste, 
after  having  been  admitted  to  a  peep  into  the  casket  which 
contained  his  treasure. 

The  congratulations  and  politenesses  thus  showered  on  Lady 
Karnac  brought  about  an  explanation  with  her  daughter.  The 
moment  her  confidence  was  invited,  Bella  told  her  all ;  her  early 
love,  her  early  griefs,  her  present  state  of  undecided  misery. 
Oh !  had  some  kind,  sweet,  sympathizing  voice  then  "  medi- 
cined"  her  wounded  heart,  "  with  goodly  counsel !"  Grief  never 
can  be  spoken  without  a  hope  of  help  from  those  to  whom  it  is 
told,  which  is  the  reason  why,  under  the  first  pressure  of  a  sor- 
row so  great  as  to  seem  to  us  past  remedy,  only  sanguine 
natures  seek  relief  in  confidence.  But,  when  time  has  at  least 
skinned  the  deep  wound  so  that  it  will  bear  a  tender  handling, 
when  one  would  think  that  the  great  bitterness  of  a  distress  was 
past,  and  that  human  sympathy  and  counsel  were  no  longer 
very  necessary,  the  perverse  heart,  prompted  by  a  hope,  however 
vague,  of  encouragement  or  aid  from  friendly  counsel,  is  glad 
to  pour  its  griefs  into  another's  ear.  And  should  this  confi 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  105 

deuce  be  ill  received — should  the  hope  be  disappointed — should 
the  wound  re-open — the  last  state  of  that  poor  heart  is  "  worse 
than  the  first,"  and  we  may  almost  despair  of  its  ultimate 
recovery. 

Mute  with  astonishment,  bewildered  by  this  sudden  claim 
on  her  maternal  sympathies  for  sorrows  past  instead  of  joys  to 
come,  Lady  Karnac  heard  in  silence  Bella's  broken,  eloquent, 
passionate  narration.  When  it  was  done,  and  the  weeping, 
shrinking  girl  looked  up  to  her  for  answer,  she  said,  coldly, "  You 
may  congratulate  yourself  that  it  has  been  so.  I  know  too 
much  of  Frenchmen  to  have  suffered  my  child  to  have  sacri- 
ficed herself  to  one  of  them.  Captain  Warner,  though  perhaps 
a  little  old,  is  in  every  other  respect  a  proper  match  for  you.  It 
is  your  duty  not  to  forget,  Bella,  that  the  wild  speculations  you 
see  every  day  before  your  eyes,  are  eating  up  our  fortune,  and 
that  Captain  Talbot  may  not  be  unwilling  to  give  up  the  care 
of  you." 

A  flush  had  passed  over  the  young  girl's  face  as  Lady  Karnac 
alluded  to  her  first  husband.  It  was  with  difficulty  she  could 
restrain  herself,  and  remember  it  was  her  mother  who  thus 
spoke,  though  of  her  father ;  but,  by  the  time  her  mother 
ceased  to  speak,  her  tears  were  dried,  her  lips  compressed,  her 
aspect  still  and  calm.  She  thought  no  pang  could  be  more 
bitter  than  to  hear  the  expediency  of  her  marriage  with  Captain 
Warner  determined  merely  by  reference  to  the  convenience  of 
the  family ;  but  she  was  undeceived  when  she  found  that  the 
whole  conversation  had  been  repeated  to  Olivia,  and  that  she 
had  become  the  object  of  her  vulgar  curiosity,  taunts,  and 
observation. 

In  a  few  days,  however,  the  house  was  closed  to  visitors.  The 
youngest  boy  fell  ill  of  some  childish  disorder,  which  threatened 
the  most  serious  consequences  to  his  weakly  constitution.  Then 
for  the  first  time  Amabel  became  of  importance  in  the  family  ; 
and  as  his  patient,  loving  nurse,  cherishing  the  flickering  spark 
of  baby  life  with  alternations  of  joyful  hope  and  agony,  she 
forgot  for  a  little  while  the  cares  and  anxieties  that  were  eating 
into  her  own  heart ;  the  fear  of  doing  what  she  should  repent, 
which  had  given  her  no  rest ;  the  memory  of  Felix  and  of 

5* 


106  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

happiness  struggling  with  her  desire  for  peace  and  indepen- 
dence, and  with  the  real  regard  and  gratitude  she  felt  for  Cap- 
tain Warner. 

She  had  left  the  sick-room  at  mid-day,  after  a  night  of 
watching,  and  was  lying  on  her  bed ;  not  resting,  for  nature 
was  so  much  exhausted  that  the  absence  of  activity  and  of  ex- 
citement served  only  to  make  her  feel  the  prostration  of  her 
strength.  She  was  suddenly  aroused  by  a  sharp  knock  at  her 
door,  and  the  voice  of  Olivia,  outside,  calling  her. 

"  Yes !     What  is  it  ? "  she  cried,  starting  up  upon  the  bed. 

"  Come  down  into  the  dining-room,"  said  Olivia  ;  "  your  lover 
wants  you."  It  was  a  cruel  phrase,  for  it  called  up  thoughts 
of  Felix  ;  nay,  perhaps  even  a  half  hope  of  his  return,  as  start- 
ing up,  she  smoothed  her  hair,  and  went  down  into  the  dining- 
room. 

Captain  Warner  heard  her  footsteps,  and  opened  the  door. 
She  entered,  closed  it,  put  her  hand  in  his,  but  did  not  raise 
her  eyes. 

"  Have  you  heard  ?"  at  length  she  faltered. 

"  From  Paris  ?     Yes  .  .  .  And  Annesley  .  .  .  .  " 

"And  what?" 

"What  I  told  you  is  true.  I  knew  it  to  be  true.  A  fellow 
I  once  met  in  the  Tuileries  had  told  me.  He  is  no  more." 

She  did  not  stir  or  tremble,  but  the  nails  of  her  left  hand 
which  was  closed,  were  pressed  into  the  palm,  and  each  drew 
blood.  Her  face  was  still  and  solemn  ;  her  eyes,  wide  open, 
were  fixed  upon  his  face  with  the  old  dreamy,  distant-looking 
expression. 

"  Here  is  his  letter,"  said  Captain  Warner,  taking  it  from  the 
fire-place  and  pressing  it  into  her  hand.  "  And  now  I'll  say 
good-bye  to-day,  Miss  Bella.  I  would  not  urge  my  love  at 
such  a  time.  Only  take  care  of  yourself,  for  God's  sake  ;  you 
look  fatigued  and  ill. 

"  Take  me,  Captain  Warner !  Take  me  if  you  wish  me  for 
your  wife.  You  see  all — you  know  all.  /  do  not  deceive  you. 
But  oh  !  do  not  ask  too  much  from  me  at  first.  Be  patient,  and 
be  kind  to  me." 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms — and,  for  a  sailor's  heart  ia  soft, 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  10Y 

and  a  sailor's  feelings  strong,  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  did 
so — tears  for  his  own  great  happiness,  tears  for  his  rival's 
fate,  and  for  her  sufferings.  She  did  not,  could  not  weep,  but 
laid  her  burning  forehead  on  his  shoulder. 

When  the  Captain  grew  more  rational,  he  placed  her  on  a 
sofa.  Her  heavy  head  drooped  on  its  pillow,  and  he  sat  down 
beside  her,  holding  her  feverish  fingers,  and  talking  eagerly  of 
his  long  cherished  love,  his  children,  his  mother,  and  the  Cedars. 

At  last,  after  asking  her  some  question,  he  paused,  waiting 
for  an  answer.  Bella  roused  herself  a  little,  drew  her  hands 
from  his,  and  passed  them  slowly  over  her  forehead. 

"  I  can  hardly  understand  you,  Captain  Warner,"  she  said. 
"  I  believe  my  head  aches  fearfully." 

"  God  bless  us  !  What  shall  I  do  for  it  1"  cried  the  Captain. 
At  this  moment  the  dining-room  door  opened,  and  Captain 
Talbot  put  his  head  in,  looking  for  his  lady. 

"  Bear  a  hand,  sir,"  cried  Captain  Warner.  "  Your  step- 
daughter is  ill.  Call  her  mother  and  the  servant  to  her." 

They  did  not  think  that  there  was  much  the  matter.  But 
when  they  got  her  up  stairs,  and  the  strange  excitement  of  the 
moment  ebbed  away,  she  found  herself  unable  to  go  down  again, 
and  sent  an  excuse  to  Captain  Warner.  It  was  weeks  before 
he  saw  her  again,  for  she  had  taken  the  complaint  of  little 
Joseph  ;  and  several  nights  he  passed  during  the  height  of  the 
disorder,  walking  frantically  up  and  down  the  Talbots'  dingy 
dining-room,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  tidings  that  she 
was  no  more. 

Even  after  she  recovered  and  could  be  brought  down  stairs, 
the  vapors  of  delirium  seemed  floating  in  her  mind.  Since 
her  engagement  and  her  illness,  every  one  was  kind  to  her. 
Olivia  was  kept  away.  There  was  nothing  now  of  which  she 
could  complain.  But  the  remembrance  of  all  that  she  had 
lived  through  never  ceased ;  and  every  hour  of  suffering  was 
multiplied  by  memory.  A  sort  of  phantom  terror  of  her  life 
crept  over  her  ;  she  could  feel  its  approaches,  but  the  pleasant 
voice  of  no  kind  friend  drove  it  from  her  side.  She  had  not 
strength  herself  to  give  it  battle,  and,  indeed,  every  attempt  at 
Belf-command  seemed  to  prolong  the  evil.  Vanquished,  the 


108  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

vain  effort  was  but  an  added  suffering  to  those  which  haunted 
her  half- waking  visions  both  by  day  and  night. 

So,  when  his  bark  rides  safely  in  the  haven,  sheltered  from 
the  windy  terrors  of  the  deep  that  foams  beyond,  the  sailor 
shudders  as  he  tells  of  his  past  perils  ;  so  one  who  has  been 
nearly  drowned,  and  at  the  time  felt  little  terror,  lives  over 
and  over  again  in  safety  that  awful  moment,  when,  slowly 
sinking,  he  believed  no  earthly  arm  could  save,  and  wakes  him- 
self in  agonizing  struggles  with  imaginary  death  upon  his  bed ; 
so  Bella  suffered,  living  over  and  over  every  bitter  mortification, 
every  grief  from  sad  remembrance  that  had  been  wrestled  with 
and  endured  during  the  last  two  years.  It  was  the  rebellion  of 
the  vanquished,  who,  in  rest,  had  gathered  strength.  It  was 
not  "  the  mind  diseased,"  but  the  moral  energies. 

Yet  in  her  darkest  moments  she  could  welcome  Captain 
Warner ;  his  presence  was  a  reality  before  which  the  shadows 
fled  away.  She  learned  to  know  his  step,  to  smile  when  she 
saw  his  pleasant  face,  to  listen  to  and  to  enjoy  his  long  sea- 
yarns,  and  share  his  interest  in  the  Cedars.  A  new  life  was 
being  grafted  on  the  past. 

Ha  was  so  proud,  too,  when,  as  her  careful  nurse,  he  was 
allowed  for  the  first  time  to  drive  her  out  in  a  low  pony  chair ; 
and  though  his  drives  were  somewhat  protracted  for  an  invalide, 
he  brought  her  back  more  fresh  from  such  excursions,  till,  when 
a  little  faint  color  dawned  on  her  pale  cheek,  like  the  dying 
sunset  tints  on  the  peaks  of  a  snow  mountain,  he  triumphed  in 
complete  succes^and  was  boisterously  happy. 

Mr.  Sibbes  had  been  written  to  at  the  time  of  her  engagement, 
and  an  order  upon  his  agents  had  arrived  to  pay  her  fortune. 
The  Captain's  affairs  had  long  been  set  in  order,  and  he  hur- 
ried the  lawyers  impatiently  in  their  preparations  for  the  wed- 
ding. 

It  was  agreed  that  they  were  not  to  live  at  the  great  mansion 
with  old  Mrs.  Warner,  but  were  to  commence  housekeeping  at 
a  pretty  vine-clad  cottage,  within  the  Park  bounds  of  the 
Cedars. 

Bella  wished  to  have  been  married  in  colors.  "  White,"  she 
said  once,  "  was  for  the  virgin-hearted."  But  Captain  Warner 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  109 

set  his  heart  on  having  everything  correctly  bridal  at  his  wed- 
ding. He  insisted  she  should  have  a  splendid  trousseau,  and 
advanced  the  money  for  it  by  anticipation  from  her  fortune. 
Every  day  he  brought  her  handsome  presents.  In  vain  she 
said,  "  Dear  Leonard,  I  insist  that  you  shall  spend  no  more  on 
me." 

His  marriage  gift  was  a  watch,  hung  on  a  slender  chain  of 
the  most  delicate  Venetian  workmanship.  This  watch  he  had 
been  up  to  town  to  order.  It  was  made  as  small  as  in  those 
days  was  consistent  with  accuracy,  and  inside  the  case  was  an 
inscription,  "  Amabel  Warner,  from  her  husband,  Leonard 
Warner,"  with  the  date  of  the  day  that  was  fixed  on  for  their 
marriage.  It  was  not  a  delicately  sentimental  gift,  it  must  be 
owned,  but  the  inscription  gave  an  amazing  delight  to  Captain 
Warner.  When  he  presented  it,  with  the  case  open,  to  Ama- 
bel, she  blushed,  hesitated,  looked  up  one  moment  in  his  face, 
then  pressed  a  kiss  on  the  new  name  he  had  prematurely  given 
her. 

All  tokens  of  affection  were  precious  to  her  heart,  and  she 
was  still  so  young  and  child-like,  that  pretty  things,  for  their 
own  sake,  had  a  value. 

'Tis  pleasant  to  be  rich  in  handsome  jewellery — 'tis  pleasant 
to  have  beautiful  new  dresses  the  wonder  of  the  town ;  and  in 
the  bustle  of  preparation,  Bella  found  an  interest  which  contri- 
buted a  great  deal  to  restore  her  mind  and  moral  energies  to 
their  healthful  tone. 

Her  wedding  dress  was  of  rich  lace  over  white  satin,  a  pre- 
sent from  Captain  Warner.  In  this  she  went  one  morning  to 
the  dingy  church  of  the  parish  of  St.  Clement's.  The  sun,  strug- 
gling through  its  crimson  curtains,  marooned  with  dust  and 
age,  looked  down  upon  a  splendid  cortege  of  Captain  Warner's 
acquaintances. 

Firmly  the  bridegroom   pronounced  the  solemn  vows,  and 

firmly  they  were  echoed  by  his  pallid  bride ;  though  once,  as 

the  ring  was  being  passed  upon  her  finger,  she  started  and 

^withdrew  her  hand,  with  that  old  look  of  agony  or  terror.     It 

Beemed  to  her  that  Felix,  a  pale  phantom,  passing  between  her 

^bridegroom  and  herself,  was  kneelig  at  her  side.    It  was  but  for 


110  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

a  moment.  She  looked  up,  saw  the  fatherly  old  clergyman, 
with  his  mumbling  grey-headed  old  clerk  responding  from  a 
big  book  at  his  side.  She  knelt  down  quietly  ;  the  ceremony 
went  on  uninterrupted,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  arose,  was 
folded  in  her  husband's  arms  (he  was  no  respecter  of  times, 
of  places,  or  of  persons),  and  received  the  congratulations  of  the 
company  as  Mrs.  Leonard  Warner. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Ma  tu,  fucco  d'Amor,  lame  del  cielo, 
Qursta  virtu  die  nude  e  fredda  giace 
Levala  su  vestita  del  tuo  velo." — 

DANTE  SONKTTO 

'But  O,  thou  light  of  heaven,  fire  of  Love, 
Revive  that  virtuous  spirit,  which  now  cold 
And  naked  lies,  and  clothe  it  with  thy  veil." — 

LYELL'S  DANTE. 

THE  wedding  feast  was  over ;  the  wedding  guests  assembled 
in  the  hall  and  at  the  windows,  watched  the  adieux  of  the 
family  and  the  bride.  She  had  changed  her  lace,  orange 
wreath,  and  white  satin,  for  a  fawn-colored  silk  pelisse,  white 
bonnet,  and  veil.  Her  own  handsome  chariot,  with  its  im- 
perials packed,  stood  with  its  four  horses  and  a  crowd  about  it 
waiting  at  the  door.  The  post-boys  of  the  "  White  Horse," 
both  in  new  jackets,  with  wedding  favors  the  circumference  of 
cheese-plates,  were  flourishing  their  whips  and  turning  round 
in  their  saddles  to  catch  a  peep  sideways  at  the  young  and 
pretty  bride. 

The  breakfast,  served  by  the  first  confectioner  of  the  town, 
and  provided  by  Captain  Warner,  had  been  (contrary  to  the  rule 
of  wedding  feasts)  a  lively  one.  The  cake  was  cut  with  all 
honors.  The  Captain,  brimming  over  with  gay  spirits,  had  been 
almost  boisterously  mirthful,  and  communicated  an  electric  spark 
of  merriment,  by  every  burst  of  gaiety,  to  the  table.  He  had 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  Ill 

replied  with  great  spirit  to  the  toasts  drunk  on  behalf  of  himself 
and  lady,  and  now  he  was  hurrying  her  farewells  to  her  family, 
impatient  to  have  her  to  himself,  to  call  her  wholly  and  for 
ever  his  own. 

Oh  !  parting  moments  !  how  dear  grow  the  indifferent  when 
we  are  about  to  say  adieu. 

Bella  clung  to  her  mother's  neck,  and  over  and  over  again 
embraced  the  younger  members  of  the  family.  Even  her  part- 
ing with  her  bridesmaid,  Olivia,  was  affectionate,  and  coupled 
with  a  promise  of  invitation  to  the  Cedars.  And  she  stepped 
back  when  her  foot  was  on  the  carriage  step  to  give  a  last  kiss 
to  her  kind  stepfather. 

The  moment  the  carriage  started  Captain  Warner  pulled 
down  all  the  blinds,  and,  with  his  arm  around  his  wife, 
pressed  her  to  his  heart.  Bella's  head  was  bowed  upon  his 
shoulder  in  an  attitude  of  humiliation.  She  seemed  to  ask 
his  pardon  that  no  better  return  than  a  divided  heart  could 
be  offered  upon  her  part  for  so  much  care,  and  tenderness,  and 
love. 

This  little  ceremony  over,  the  Captain  pulled  up  all  the 
blinds  again.  He  was  very  happy,  he  said,  and  if  the  country 
folk  found  pleasure  in  contemplating  happiness,  he,  for  his 
part,  had  no  wish  to  be  exclusive. 

The  day  was  fine  ;  a  clear,  bright  autumn  day,  with  a  sharp 
little  breeze,  making  the  leaves  fall.  The  country,  too,  if  not 
exactly  picturesque,  was  eminently  English,  and  highly  culti- 
vated. Bella  listened  with  pleasure  to  her  husband's  remarks, 
to  the  stories  he  told  her  of  the  country  gentlemen  whose 
houses  they  passed  upon  the  way ;  and  rather  enjoyed  his  little 
attempts  at  the  inn,  where  they  changed  horses,  to  make  his 
wedding  day  a  memorable  one,  and  to  cause  other  people  to  be 
partakers  of  his  joy.  He  paid  the  post-boys  treble  their  legiti- 
mate gratuity.  He  sent  into  the  inn  parlor  to  have  ten  shillings 
changed  into  sixpences,  and  scattered  them  amongst  the  people 
round  the  door. 

"The  bachelors,"  he  said,  "to  drink  to  Hymen,  and  the 
married  ones  to  buy  some  treat  for  the  little  ones  at  home." 

In  pursuance  with  which  instruction,  the  good  health  and 


112  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

prosperity  of  Squire  and  Mrs.  Hymen  were  toasted  at  the  tavern 
tap  that  night,  with  three  times  three. 

The  evening  was  closing  in,  as  they  drew  near  their  destina- 
tion. During  the  last  mile  or  two,  the  captain's  rattle  slack- 
ened ;  he  grew  fidgety,  and  was  continually  letting  down  the 
front  glasses  and  stretching  his  head  out  of  the  window. 

"  We  stayed  to  breakfast,  my  love,"  he  said,  on  one  of  these 
occasions,  "  because  I  thought  we  should  be  late  for  dinner ; 
and  I  would  not  put  my  mother  or  Mrs.  Buck  out  of  their  way 
on  this  first  day  of  our  arrival." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Buck?"  the  bride  asked. 

"  Our  housekeeper,  my  mother's  factotum,  the  ruler  of  the 
roast,  the  commanding  officer  of  the  servants'  hall  and  of  the 
village.  You  must  keep  on  good  terms  with  her,  my  little  wife > 
and,  indeed,  she  cannot  fail  to  be  bewitched  with  you.  She  is 
a  good  creature.  I  have  always  found  her  civil ;  but  she  is 
difficult^  get  on  with  ;  all  good  servants  are." 

A  little  half  ( mile  further,  and  the  horses'  feet  were  rattling 
on  a  bridge. 

"  D it !"  said  the  captain,  starting  up  and  thrusting  half 

his  body  out  of  the  window.  "  Where  are  the  tenantry  ?  This 
is  the  boundary  of  the  parish — yonder  is  the  spire — and  we 
ought  to  hear  the  bells." 

The  carriage  stopped  to  pay  the  toll ;  the  captain  beckoned 
the  pike-man  to  come  up  to  him. 

"  Master  Glass,"  said  he,  "  where  are  my  people,  and  have 
you  heard  the  bells  ring  ?  I  sent  a  man  and  horse  on  from  the 
last  post-house,  to  warn  them  to  be  on  the  look-out.  Have  you 
seen  none  of  them  cruising  about  here  ?" 

"  May  be,  captain,"  was  the  answer ;  "  but  I  haven't  heerd  of 
any." 

What  naughty  thing  the  captain  said  between  his  teeth  as  the 
chariot  rolled  on,  need  not  be  here  repeated  ;  and,  irritated  as 
he  was  to  find,  in  his  own  village,  so  little  account  made  of  his 
new  happiness,  he  found  ample  occupation,  as  the  carriage 
turned  off  the  great  London  road,  in  pointing  out  to  Bella  the 
village  and  its  beauties.  Yonder  was  the  church,  too  hand- 
some for  the  country — almost,  indeed,  a  small  cathedral.  Near 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  113 

it,  close  nestling  under  its  grey  eaves,  was  the  neat  vicarage, 
around  which  lay  the  village. 

This  was  to  the  left,  as  they  looked  over  the  valley,  with  its 
winding  'glistening  river,  its  sunny  meadow-lands,  and  mills  and 
bridges.  On  their  right  hand  rose  a  hill,  around  the  waist  of 
which  the  road  was  cut  that  they  were  travelling.  A  bend  in  it 
carried  them  round  the  hill  side,  with  their  backs  to  the 
village. 

Yonder  is  the  house !  Yonder  their  own  cottage.  There,  to 
the  right  of  the  house,  is  one  of  its  tall  cedar  trees.  So  little 
were  they  expected  that  there  was  no  one  at  the  entrance  gate 
to  throw  it  open,  and  one  of  the  post-boys  had  to  dismount. 

On,  through  the  wooded  avenue ;  through  other  gates,  they 
had  to  open ;  for  even  the  gardeners  had  left  their  work,  and 
all  was  calm  and  still.  The  captain  sprang  out  of  the  carriage, 
and,  running  on  beside  it  as  it  drove  slowly,  opened  the  gates 
through  which  it  had  to  pass.  And  so  they  reached  the  house, 
swept  round  its  broad  frontage,  and  drew  up  in  the  flower-gar- 
den at  its  hall  door.  The  captain  furiously  rang  the  bell.  A 
servant  promptly  answered  it.  The  gleam  of  shining  lamps  fell 
pleasantly  from  within  upon  the  carriage. 

"  What  can  be  the  reason  no  one  came  to  meet  us  ?  What 
is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  sir,"  cried  the  captain,  "upon  my 
wedding  day  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  I  didn't  have  no  orders,"  answered  the 
footman. 

The  captain  dared  not  vent  his  wrath  where  it  was  due.  So 
he  opened  the  carriage  door  and  said,  "  We  get  out  here, 
Belle,"  rather  roughly.  As  he  hurried  her  across  the  square, 
oak-pannelled  hall,  ornamented  with  armory  and  antlers,  he 
said  to  her, 

"  Be  particular  to  please  my  mother." 

And  the  footman,  opening  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  she 
found  herself  in  a  pleasant,  large,  and  brilliantly-lighted  apart- 
ment, and  in  the  presence  of  an  elderly  lady,  who  walked  half 
way  across  the  room  to  meet  them  as  they  entered. 

"  Mother,  my  little  wife,"  said  the  captain.  "  She  will  be  to 
you  a  daughter." 


114  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  You  are  welcome,  Mrs.  Leonard,  if  you  come  here  with  a 
determination  to  bring  a  blessing  with  you  to  your  husband's 
home.  But  I  am  sure  our  English  life  will  prove  too  dull  for 
you,"  was  the  answer,  as  she  touched  her  daughter-in-law's  pale 
cheek  with  her  lips,  and  coldly  took  her  hand. 

"  It  is  dull,"  said  the  tactless  captain.  "  Bella  must  make  it 
gay  to  suit  herself,  and  make  the  best  of  us.  Is  she  not  beau- 
tiful ?"  he  whispered  to  his  mother. 

The  old  lady  did  not  seem  inclined  to  accord  any  further 
welcome  to  her  daughter-in-law.  Poor  Bella  turned  aside  in 
her  embarrassment,  and,  being  cold  after  her  long  journey,  put 
up  her  little  feet  to  warm  them  at  the  fire. 

Old  Mrs.  Warner  was  of  middle  height,  with  a  light  wig  ar- 
ranged about  her  face  in  tiny  curls.  Her  dress  was  black,  and 
scrupulously  stiff  in  all  particulars ;  the  materials  were  what 
ladies  designate  as  "  good ;"  the  waist  short,  the  skirt  gored, 
with  a  few  tiny  gathers  in  front  and  the  same  to  match  behind  ; 
the  bosom  was  low,  square,  and  filled  in  with  a  white  muslin 
kerchief,  every  plait  of  which  was  regularly  folded.  The  most 
remarkable  thing  about  her,  however,  was  a  bonnet,  small 
(fashionable  people  wore  them  in  that  day  of  an  enormous  size), 
made  of  rich  black  silk,  and  lined  with  yellowish  white  satin, 
too  thick  to  be  used  for  anything  but  upholstery  in  our  degene- 
rate days.  Some  people  surmised  she  slept  in  this ;  but  cer- 
tainly, from  the  time  of  her  first  rheumatic  attack,  six  years 
before  Bella  knew  her,  to  the  last  stage  of  her  last  illness,  she 
was  never  seen  without  one. 

The  room  was  comfortably  arranged,  and  even  elegant; 
everything  having  its  own  place,  everything  having  its  own 
use,  and  everything  handsome  of  its  kind.  Bella  thought,  with 
a  shudder,  how  great  must  have  been  the  contrast  to  her  hus- 
band in  his  late  frequent  visits  to  her  own  ill-ordered,  tawdry, 
miserable  home. 

"  Mrs.  Leonard  finds  our  English  climate  chilly,"  observed 
Mrs.  Warner,  looking  at  her  daughter-in-law  as  she  stood  over 
the  fire. 

"  Bless  me  !  Yes,  she  does,  indeed,"  cried  the  captain,  drag- 
ging, as  he  spoke,  his  mother's  own  arm-chair  up  to  the  fender, 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  115 

and  forcing  his  wife  into  it.  "  How  cold  her  little  feet  are,"  he 
continued,  feeling  them  ;  "  and  it  is  but  a  little  time  since  she 
was  very  ill,  mother." 

"  If  Mrs.  Leonard's  health  is  so  indifferent,"  observed  Mrs. 
Warner,  standing  sternly  and  stiffly  by  the  table,  for  she  would 
have  scorned  to  seat  herself  in  any  but  her  own  particular  arm- 
chair, "  we  cannot  hope  to  keep  you  long  in  England ;  she 
will  make  that  an  excuse  to  quit  the  dull  routine  of  English 
duties  for  a  gayer  life  abroad." 

"  Leonard,"  whispered  his  young  wife,  stooping  over  him  as 
he  knelt,  tenderly  rubbing  her  chilled  feet  in  his  hands,  "  where 
are  the  children  ?" 

"  Bless  me !"  cried  the  Captain,  starting  up.  "  The  children ! 
Where  are  Katie  and  little  Johnny  ?  We  have  not  yet  seen 
them." 

"They  are  in  their  nursery.  I  did  not  know  you  would 
think  about  the  children,"  replied  old  Mrs.  Warner. 

"  Think  about  them,  Ma'am  !  I  always  think  of  them  !"  said 
her  son.  "  I'll  bring  them  down  myself,  and  introduce  them." 

Saying  which  he  left  Amabel  alone  with  her  new  parent. 
Had  it  been  for  a  few  months,  instead  of  a  few  moments,  the 
gentle  manners  and  endearing  disposition  of  the  one,  and  the 
sterling  qualities  of  the  other,  might  have  produced  mutually 
a  favorable  impression.  But  this  was  not  to  be. 

Of  that  which  followed,  Amabel,  in  her  own  narrative, 
speaks  briefly ;  but  how  often  I  have  heard  the  story  told  by 
others  of  its  actors ! 

The  Captain  darted  upstairs  to  the  nursery,  calling  to  the 
nurse,  "  Come,  Mrs.  Mathers,  why  have  not  you  brought  the 
children  down  to  their  mamma  ?" 

"  Mistress  gave  no  orders,"  nurse  began. 

"  Well !  well !  let  them  come  down,"  said  the  vexed  master, 
snatching  up  his  little  Johnny  in  his  arms.  "  Come,  children, 
come  and  kiss  your  new  mamma,  my  loves." 

"  I  won't  come  !  I  wont !     And  I  won't  kiss  her !"  shrieked 
the  little  fellow,  struggling  in  his  father's  arms,  and  kicking 
furiously. 
.  "  Nonsense,"  said  the  Captain,  with  a  shake.     "  Hold  your 


116  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

tongue,  you  little  rascal.  If  it's  you,  Mrs.  Mathers,  that  have 
been  filling  the  child's  head  with  such  fancies " 

"  Not  me,  no  more  than  others,"  said  the  nurse,  sulkily,  tak- 
ing off  the  little  Katie's  pinafore.  "  You  can't  expect,  sir, 
I'm  to  stop  their  ears  when  every  one's  been  talking  of  the 
change  for  them." 

"  Silence,  at  once,"  cried  Captain  Warner. 

At  this  moment,  Johnny,  kicking,  struggled  himself  on  to 
the  floor.  A  particularly  sharp  kick,  as  he  descended,  stung 
the  Captain's  temper  beyond  control.  Without  a  moment's 
thought,  he  gave  a  cuff  or  two  (not  hard)  to  the  little 
boy,  who,  greatly  terrified,  but  little  hurt,  set  up  a  frightful 
howling. 

It  reached  below  stairs,  to  the  drawing-room ;  it  echoed  in 
old  Mrs.  Warner's  ears,  who,  with  all  speed,  hastened  to  the 
scene  of  action.  Bella,  too,  hearing  her  husband's  voice  pitched 
in  an  angry  key,  hesitated  not  to  follow  her. 

"  This  is  the  first  beginning  of  your  new  wife,  then  !  These 
are  her  first  doings !  This  is  the  treatment  she  is  to  bring  on 
your  poor  children !"  she  heard  the  old  lady  say.  "  This  is 
French  influence  amongst  us !  This  is  the  woman  you  have 
brought  home  to  replace  the  mother  of  your  children,  Leonard 
Warner !" 

"  Madam !"  cried  the  Captain,  stopped  in  a  flood  of  the  elo- 
quence of  passion  that  he  was  pouring  forth  upon  the  nurse 
and  children,  "  I  desire  my  wife  may  be  received  here  as  she 
deserves.  My  late  wife  was  an  admirable  woman — far  be  it 
from  me  to  speak  in  any  but  the  highest  terms  of  her  conduct 
and  her  virtues ;  but  she  was  not  to  be  compared  in  any  way 
with  the  present  Mrs.  Warner !" 

"  Go  on  !  Go  on  !"  cried  the  old  lady.  "  All  our  old  English 
rules  of  reverencing  the  dead  and  honoring  our  parents  may 
be  forgotten,  now  French  influence  is  amongst  us.  But  I  won- 
der you  are  not  ashamed  to  speak  such  language  in  the  ears  of 
your  poor  innocent  children,  of  their  dead  mother !" 

"Leonard!  Leonard!"  cried  poor  Amabel,  pulling  him  by 
the  sleeve ;  her  face  was  as  pale  as  ashes. 

The  Captain  turned  to  her,  still  looking  red  and  angry. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  117 

Bella  caught  up  the  screaming  boy,  and  presented  him  to  his 
father,  to  kiss,  iii  token  of  reconciliation  ;  but  the  little  savage, 
whose  hands  were  free,  tore  at  her  face,  and  brought  blood, 
rending  at  the  same  time  her  rich  lace  veil  to  atoms. 

"  Do  that  again,  if  you  dare,  you  little  rascal,"  cried  the 
angry  father,  turning  round  upon  him.  Old  Mrs.  Warner 
snatched  the  child ;  Bella  threw  herself  between  them,  and 
weeping,  praying,  expostulating,  dragged  her  husband  from  the 
chamber. 

Once  beyond  the  noise  of  the  affray,  he  himself  was  glad  to 
go.  They  got  once  more  into  their  waiting  chariot.  The  post- 
boys, who  had  lighted  their  lamps,  rattled  across  the  park  to  the 
cottage — their  new  home.  And  the  household  of  new  servants, 
assembled  in  the  hall  to  greet  their  coming,  were  astonished 
when  the  carriage  door  was  opened,  to  see  a  shamed  and  sulky 
bridegroom,  supporting  rather  than  assisting  a  pale  and  tearful 
bride. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Life  is  before  ye — from  the  fated  road 
Ye  cannot  turn :  then  take  ye  up  your  load  ; 
Not  yours  to  tread  or  leave  the  unknown  way, 
Ye  must  go  o'er  it ;  meet  ye  what  ye  may. 
Fail  not  for  sorrow— falter  not  for  sin, 
But  onward,  upward,  till  the  goal  ye  win. 
God  guard  ye,  and  God  guide  you  in  your  way, 
Young  pilgrim  warriors  who  set  forth  to-day. 

MRS.  F.  KEMBLB 

THE  first  thing  after  breakfast  the  next  morning,  the  Captain 
went  over  to  the  Cedars,  to  make  his  peace  with  his  mother. 
His. wife  had  been  agonized  with  the  fear  that  the  scene  of  the 
preceding  evening  would  have  led  to  a  complete  estrangement 
between  the  son  and  parent ;  but  she  was  mistaken.  She  did 
not  understand  either  her  husband's  character  or  old  Mrs. 


118  AMABEL;    A  FAMILY  HISTORY. 

Warner's.  Neither  did  she  know  how  blood  allies  itself  with 
blood,  against  the  stranger. 

The  excitement  of  his  burst  of  passion  over,  the  Captain  was 
willing  to  make  peace  at  any  sacrifice ;  and  the  terms  exacted 
by  old  Mrs.  Warner  were  severe.  She  had  before  tried  vainly 
to  persuade  him  to  give  up  his  children  to  her  care ;  he 
answered,  and  truly,  that  such  an  arrangement  would  insinuate 
a  want  of  confidence  in  his  young  bride.  But  now  she  again 
urged  the  proposal,  and  made  the  most  of  her  advantage. 

"  You  see  that  your  new  wife  is  not  the  proper  person  to 
intrust  them  with,"  she  argued ;  without,  as  the  reader  will 
perceive,  any  ground  of  argument.  "  A  mere  young  girl  her- 
self; just  hatched,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  nursery;  brought  up 
with  French,  and  other  foreign  notions.  I  wonder  you  can 
think  of  giving  your  young  children  up  to  her.  If  you  choose 
to  risk  your  own  happiness,  I  cannot  see  that  gives  you  any 
right  to  sacrifice  your  children — at  any  rate  -till  you  have  tried 
her." 

Thus  argued  Mrs.  Warner ;  and  the  Captain,  no  great  analyser 
of  thoughts  or  circumstances,  feeling  that  his  little  wife  had 
been  somehow  the  cause  of  his  humiliation,  and  so  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself,  that  he  was  willing  to  purchase  oblivion 
of  his  fault  on  any  terms,  yielded  the  point,  and  consented  to 
the  proposal. 

Amabel,  when  he  told  her  what  he  had  done,  dared  not 
insist,  Or  even  express  her  mortification.  She  had  learned  to 
be  afraid  to  irritate  her  husband,  and  did  not  say  how  much  she 
had  looked  forward  to  offering  him,  as  a  compensation  for  her 
own  imperfect  love,  a  mother's  watchful  zeal  for  the  welfare  of 
his  children. 

So  great  was  her  disappointment,  so  great  her  earnest  wish 
to  win  their  love,  that  Mrs.  Mathers,  the  nurse,  soon  complained 
to  the  old  lady  that  she  could  not  walk  out,  whichever  way  she 
went  with  her  charges,  without  being  .troubled  with  the  com- 
pany of  young  Mrs.  Warner. 

This  was  not,  however,  immediately  after  her  marriage,  but 
only  when  her  walks  grew  solitary,  and  the  novelty  of  marriage 
was  over ;  for,  at  first,  Captain  Warner  was  always  at  her  side. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT.  119 

She  had  visits  to  pay  to  all  the  neighborhood ;  for  the 
gentry  around  had  called  upon  her,  and,  after  partaking  of 
wine  and  bride-cake  at  the  cottage,  went  over  to  the  great 
house  to  report  their  impressions  to  old  Mrs.  Warner ;  to  gather 
up,  in  return,  the  jnuendoes  she  threw  out  about  "  French  in- 
fluence," "  infatuation,"  et  cetera ;  and  to  draw  conclusions 
against  Amabel,  from  the  fact  of  her  not  having  her  husband's 
children  under  her  care. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  old  lady  would  come  over  to  the 
cottage  and  help  her  daughter-in-law  to  receive  any  smart  peo- 
ple who  she  calculated  might  call ;  on  one  of  which  occasions 
a  lively  girl  being  present,  made  some  remarks  about  Lady 
Harriet  Rustmere. 

"  You  will  like  to  go  to  Foxley,"  she  said  to  Amabel.  "  The 
Rustmeres  see  a  great  deal  of  company  from  London,  and  have 
just  come  from  abroad." 

"  I  shall  like  very  much  to  visit  there,"  was  poor  Bella's 
answer. 

No  sooner  had  the  young  lady  gone,  however,  than  old  Mrs. 
Warner  turned  with  her  severest  aspect  to  her  daughter-in-law. 

"  My  ideas  of  English  propriety,  Mrs.  Leonard,"  said  she, 
"  will  not  permit  me  .to  sanction  the  visits  of  my  son's  wife  to 
Lady  Harriet  Rustmere.  If  you  wish  to  associate  with  her  and 
her  gay  circle,  I  must  beg  to  inform  you  you  must  go  there 
alone." 

"Indeed,  madam,  I  have  no  wish  to  know  her.  I  did  not 
know  she  was  not  a  proper  person,"  was  her  daughter-in-law's 
reply. 

In  every  way,  her  ignorance  of  English  modes  of  thinking 
and  English  modes  of  life  brought  mortification,  beginning 
with  her  first  great  transgression  and  reproof  by  Mrs.  Warner, 
when,  on  the  Sunday  after  her  marriage,  she  came  into  church 
at  the  second  lesson. 

"  My.  love,"  her  husband— who  was  very  smartly  dressed — had 
said  to  her,  when  she  came  down  ready  for  church,  "  you  should 
have  put  your  other  gown  and* bonnet  on.  My  mother  always 
goes  in  her  best  to  church,  and  she  is  very  particular  on  these 
occasions." 


120  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

The  dress  was  changed  to  please  him.  The  fawn-colored 
pelisse  and  bridal  bonnet  were  put  on,  but  this  took  time.  The 
eyes  of  all  the  congregation  were  upon  her  when  she  entered ; 
and  she  sank  in  the  opinion  of  the  farmers'  wives  as  half  a 
Papist  and  a  foreigner,  when  they  observed  that  she  required 
help  to  find  the  places  in  her  Prayer-book ;  for  the  Talbot 
family  were  no  church-goers,  having  no  pew  at  St.  Clement's, 
and  one  of  the  most  wearisome  and  onerous  of  Amabel's  new 
duties  was  to  go  to  Morning  Service  and  the  lecture  every 
Tuesday  morning,  in  the  cold  church,  with  Mrs.  Warner. 

The  old  lady  went,  as  did  every  other  member  of  the  congre- 
gation, for  respectability's  sake,  or  for  example.  It  had  never 
entered  into  her  head  to  find  comfort,  or  blessing,  or  "  refresh- 
ing of  the  soul"  in  it — to  make  that  hour  of  communal  devo- 
tion the  sabbath  of  the  day,  the  sanctifier  of  the  thoughts,  the 
cares,  and  occupations  of  the  twenty-four ;  nor  did  she  dream  of 
interesting  in  it  the  feelings  of  her  new  daughter.  Enough  that 
Amabel,  well  or  ill,  in  all  weathers  went.  She  did  not  consider 
that  the  outward  compliance,  which  is  not  even  a  symbol  of 
the  inward  feelings  or  fixed  principles  of  the  soul,«was  nothing 
better  than  a  semi-weekly  solemn  mockery. 

But  Bella's  greatest  trial  was  the  housekeeping.  For  young 
beginners,  old  Mrs.  Warner  had  considered  it  en  regie  to  engage 
an  inexperienced  cook  (for  she  herself  was  what  is  called  a  mana- 
ger), under  the  idea  that  Mrs.  Leonard  ought  to  see  to  her  own 
kitchen  ;  for  her  practical  philosophy  was  that  of  the  Anti-Ba- 
conian schools,  based  on  the  presumed  ought  to  be  instead  of 
really  was.  Captain  Warner  was  particular  about  his  table. 
Bella,  who  had  not  an  idea  of  what  was  required  of  her,  suf- 
fered him  often  to  sit  down  to  a  bad  dinner,  without  knowing, 
indeed,  that  it  was  a  bad  one.  How  was  she  to  know  when  to 
give  out  white  sugar  and  when  to  give  out  brown  ?  When  to 
stir  up  mince-meat  and  when  to  pickle  cabbages  ?  When  John 
Hodges  killed  a  pig,  how  was  she  to  know  what  part  she  was 
to  take  after  the  first  choice  had  been  offered  at  the  great 
house  to  Mrs.  Warner  ?  When  Mrs.  John  Hodges  sent  round 
notice  of  a  probable  increase  of  family,  how  was  she  to  know  the 
customs  of  the  place  with  regard  to  caudle  ?  When  the  ringers, 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  121 

and  the  singers,  and  the  waits,  and  the  grave-digger  carne  round 
for  Christmas-boxes,  how  could  she  equitably  adjust  their 
respective  claims  for  half-a-crown  or  a  shilling  ?  How  was  she 
to  know  that  egg-sauce  went  with  poultry,  and  plum-sauce  went 
with  pig, — bread-sauce  with  game, — gooseberry-sauce  with 
mackerel, — or  the  difference  between  goose  and  turkey  stuffing  I 

"The  whim  we  have  of  happiness,"  Mr.  Carlyle  says,  "is 
somewhat  thus.  By  certain  valuations  and  averages  of  our  own 
striking  we  come  upon  some  sort  of  average  terrestrial  lot.  This, 
we  fancy,  belongs  to  us  by  nature  and  of  indefeasible  right.  It 
is  simple  payment  of  our  wages,  of  our  deserts ;  requires  neither 
thanks  nor  complaints ;  only  such  ovej-plus  as  there  may  be  we 
count  happiness,  any  deficit  again  is  misery." 

In  like  manner,  some  such  balance  the  village  population  of 
England  have  contrived  to  strike  with  respect  to  the  favors  of 
the  great,  "  which  are  of  public  right."  They  measure  the 
gentility  of  their  superiors  by  their  observance  of  these  proprie- 
ties, and  to  depart  from  them  constitutes,  in  their  eyes,  the  "  no 
gentleman"  or  "  no  lady."  The  people  round  "  The  Cedars"  were, 
one  after  the  other,  offended  by  little  breaches  of  their  customs ; 
and,  never  disposed  to  see  "  a  real,  born  lady"  in  a  foreigner, 
began  to  call  her  a  "  poor  thing,"  and  to  circulate  stories  of  her 
ignorance  about  the  village.  Abundant  evidence  of  her  mis- 
management stood  on  record  on  the  books  of  her  tradesmen, 
which  old  Mrs.  Warner  was  always  sure  to  see,  and  which 
gave  rise  continually  to  such  remarks  as,  "  Dear  me,  Mrs. 
Leonard,  I  find  at  Booth's  you  ordered  twelve  yards  of  house 
flannel.  It  is  not  the  kind  I  buy.  You  won't  find  it  wear  at 
all,  and  it  will  be  a  sad  waste  to  have  a  quantity  of  such  stuff 
on  your  hands.  I  have  ordered  Booth  to  send  up  and  take  it 
back  again."  Or,  "  Mrs.  Leonard,  I  hear  you  pay  ninepence  a 
pound  for  brown  sugar,  and  I  pay  sevenpence  half-penny. 
Young  English  housekeepers  do  not  commit  such  extrava- 
gances; but  it  is  different  with  foreigners,  I  dare  say."  Or, 
again,  "  Mrs.  Leonard,  Buck  says  you  ordered  your  last  yeast 
from  Simpson's.  With  a  stake  in  the  county,  you  should 
really  inquire  into  the  characters  of  people.  I  never  went  there 
in  my  life.  He's  a  dissenter  /"  And,  though  Captain  Warner 

6 


122  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

bore  all  this  kind  of  thing,  at  first,  with  great  good  humor,  a 
growing  sense  of  her  deficiencies  disposed  him  to  listen  to  his 
mother's  constant  speeches  about  "  English  comfort,"  "  English 
housekeeping,"  and  "  the  domestic  qualities  of  English  wives." 

"  We  must  really  change  our  cook,"  he  said,  one  day  after 
an  unlucky  dinner. 

"  It  will  be  a  shame  to  your  wife  if  she  does  change,"  said 
Mrs.  Warner.  "  She  ought  to  learn  her  duties.  A  woman 
who  cannot  keep  her  husband's  house,  and  is  not  fit  to  be  in- 
trusted with  his  children,  and  knows  nothing  of  parish  business, 
what  good  is  she  except  to  look  at  ?  A  pretty  face  won't  last 
a  lifetime.  Beauty  is  but  skin-deep,  son  Leonard,  after  all." 

Captain  Warner  having  thus  to  keep  his  cook,  hit  on  another 
plan.  He  met  Mrs.  Buck  one  day  in  the  village,  and  having 
hinted  to  her  in  a  way  that  he  thought  delicate,  but  which  con- 
veyed a  great  deal  to  Mrs.  Buck's  imagination,  that  his  young 
wife  was  inexperienced,  and  wanted  a  wiser  person  to  see  about 
things,  went  on  to  ask  her  to  give  an  eye  to  his  household,  and 
advise  and  instruct  Mrs.  Leonard  occasionally.  This  was  enough. 
From  that  moment  Bella  found  that  authority  even  over  her 
own  servants  had  slipped  out  of  her  hands.  The  butcher,  in- 
stead of  coming  to  her  for  orders,  took  them  for  both  households 
at  the  Hall.  Every  potato  cooked  was  counted  by  Mrs.  Buck, 
Mrs.  Mathers,  and  Mrs.  Warner.  Young  Mrs.  Leonard's  "  shift- 
lessness  "  and  "  want  of  management  "  formed  the  staple  of 
conversation  between  the  old  lady  and  her  satellites,  and  the 
essence  of  these  discoveries  was  repeated  daily,  in  some  form 
or  other,  to  Captain  Warner. 

Alas  !  Captain  Warner  was  not  the  man  to  be  proof  against 
these  insinuations.  He  had  loved  and  admired  his  young  wife 
when  he  first  married  her,  with  all  the  warmth  and  sincerity  of 
his  own  hearty  nature ;  but  he  was  one  of  those  men  whose 
first  passion  of  admiration  is  so  unbounded,  that  they  can  see 
no  flaw  in  its  object ;  and  so  soon  as  a  doubt  of  the  absolute 
perfection  of  an  idol  works  its  way  into  the  mind,  it  loosens 
their  faith  in  every  way,  and  leads  them  rapidly  to  the  oppo- 
site and  equally  unreasonable  extreme.  He  had  little  idea  of 
the  true  trials  of  womanhood.  He  believed  a  pretty  woman's 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  123 

life  to  be  always  as  Amabel's  was  when  he  first  saw  her,  all 
play  and  sunshine  ;  of  its  real  weaknesses  and  temptations,  the 
petty  duties  of  life  and  the  trials  of  the  imagination,  he  had  no 
idea,  and  for  them  would  make  no  allowances.  He  could  ap- 
preciate a  woman  as  a  whole,  but  had  no  power  of  appreciating 
her  in  detail.  The  first  drops  of  distrust  had  oozed  their  way 
into  the  model  of  perfection  he  thought  water-tight,  and  soon 
the  enemies  of  his  peace  were  "  to  enter,  like  a  flood,"  through 
the  leak  which  seemed  so  trifling. 

****** 

Poor  child  !  The  only  love  she  had  amongst  the  strangers 
upon  whom  she  was  dependent  for  her  happiness  was  her  hus- 
band's, and  that,  as  we  have  seen,  with  all  its  warmth  and  its 
effusion,  was  not  appreciative. 

"  Loved  would'st  thou  be  ?  Then  love  by  tb.ee  must  first  be  given, 
No  purchase  money  else  avails  beneath  the  heaven." 

And  her  heart  was  bankrupt !  Neither  did  she  know,  as  day 
by  day  she  felt  her  hopes  of  happiness  grow  less,  and  with  the 
diminution  of  her  influence,  her  difficulties  multiplying  around 
her,  that  all  might  have  been  smoothed  could  she  have  truly 
loved.  Nor  was  she  in  a  state  of  mind  to  follow  out  the  coun- 
sels of  Archbishop  Leighton — the  Saint  John  amongst  our 
churchmen — when  he  tells  us  that  if  there  be  anything  wanting 
between  the  married  in  affection,  "  they  should  be  earnest  suitors 
for  God's  help  in  this,  that  His  hand  may  set  right  what  no 
other  can ;  and  that  He  who  is  love  itself,  may  infuse  that 
mutual  love  into  their  hearts,  which  they  should  have  sought 
sooner." 

She  was  not  deficient  in  observation,  not  "  set  in  her  own 
ways "  or  opinions,  there  was  no  reason  to  believe  that  she 
would  not  surmount  her  inexperience  and  learn  her  wifely 
duties  as  other  women  learn ;  but  from  her  first  failure,  others, 
whose  fault  it  was,  argued  her  incapacity,  and,  after  a  short 
struggle,  she  resigned  all  her  authority  into  their  hands.  It 
was  not,  however,  a  passive  or  contented  resignation,  but  ac- 
companied with  an  impotent  "  kicking  against  the  pricks," 
and  a  dissatisfaction  with  herself,  which  crowned  her  wretched- 


124  AMABEL;    A  FAMILY   HISTORY. 

ness.  Disgusted  with  her  mother-in-law's  infirmity  of  meddling, 
she  grew  unwilling  in  anything  to  be  her  colleague.  It  was 
sufficient  that  the  hand  of  old  Mrs.  Warner  was  put  into  any 
enterprise ;  there  the  hand  of  Amabel  was  sure  never  to  come. 

Poor  child !  we  say  again.  She  had  not  that  love  which 
imparts  intuitively  the  knowledge  of  how  all  things  may  be 
made  to  work  together  for  another's  good ;  which  accepts 
every  assistance  to  promote  the  loved  one's  happiness ;  is  anx- 
ious only  for  the  end,  and  self-forgetting  in  its  attainment.  She 
feit  that  much  was  owing  to  her,  as  a  woman  and  a  wife ;  and 
vexed  and  worsted  in  her  attempts  to  remedy  the  evils  that 
beset  her,  she  threw  up  her  hopes  of  happiness  in  despair. 

It  was  go  hard  to  be  unappreciated,  to  be  considered  incapa- 
ble ;  to  be  looked  down  upon  even  by  the  village  people,  who — 
for  the  Captain  had  always  been  a  favorite — ranged  themselves, 
as  they  supposed,  on  his  side,  and  began  to  pity  him,  and  to 
make  comparisons  between  his  "poor  thing  of  a  wife,"  and 
the  dashing  Miss  O'Byrne,  who  rode  so  well,  and  who  had 
always  been  looked  on  as  the  presumptive  successor  of  the  first 
Mrs.  Warner.  No  one,  of  course,  spoke  openly  against  his 
young  wife  to  the  Captain,  but  the  influence  of  public  opinion 
reached  him  in  looks,  and  signs,  and  general  observations.  He 
had  been  passionately  enamored  of  his  little  bride,  he  loved  her 
still ;  but  did  he  love  and  cherish  her,  when  he  admitted  the 
thought  that  an  English  wife  would  have  been  better  suited  to 
his  position — or  regretted  that  he  had  ever  seen  her  happy  and 
childlike  in  her  island  home  ? 

And  so  her  days  and  her  weeks  passed,  through  that  dull 
winter ;  she  did  not  know  how  to  supply  herself  with  amuse- 
ment or  occupation.  She  was  shut  out  from  rumors  of  the 
great  world,  after  long  residence  at  a  place  like  Valetta; 
and  to  procure  new  books  from  town,  or  magazines,  anything 
in  short  but  the  Weekly  County  Paper,  would  have  seemed  to 
her  as  impracticable  an  enterprise  as  anything  in  tales  of  fairy 
land.  Mrs.  Warner  recommended  her  (in  English)  Rollin's 
Ancient  History,  a  production,  which,  with  its  adaptation  of 
the  manners  and  sentiments  of  the  Court  of  Louis  XIV.  to 
the  history  of  the  Egyptians,  Greeks,  and  successors  of  Alex- 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  125 

ander,  she  herself,  in  after  years,  said,  always  reminded  her  of 
a  print  that  hung  in  the  library  of  the  Cedars,  representing 
Garrick  in  the  character  of  Romeo,  descending  from  the  win- 
dow of  his  mistress,  in  ruffles,  a  flapped  waistcoat,  and  a  bag- 
wig.  She  also  read  the  Rambler  and  Spectator,  and  looked 
wistfully  at  the  backs  of  the  Sentimental  Journey,  Julia  de 
Roubigne,  Gil  Bias,  Percy's  Reliques,  Tom  Jones,  and  other 
similar  light  reading,  which  she  saw  through  the  glass  panels 
of  a  book-case,  of  which  old  Mrs.  Warner  had  pocketed  the 
key.  And  she  took  long  walks  in  the  park,  which  was  damp 
under  the  trees  in  winter,  or  drove  out  with  old  Mrs.  Warner, 
to  make  formal  morning  visits,  stopping  sometimes  at  poor  cot- 
tages, where  she  learned  to  think  charity  an  odious  thing  in 
England,  on  seeing  the  old  lady  call  some  poor  woman  up  to 
the  carriage  door,  and  tender  to  her  imperious  advice,  or  re- 
prove her,  or  inquire  into  all  the  secrets  of  her  life  and  family, 
with  a  want  of  delicacy  which  seemed  to  argue  that  she  thought 
the  poor  not  gifted  with  tho  same  nature  as  her  own. 

All  this  jarred  harshly  on  the  sensibilities  of  Amabel,  for  she 
did  not  know  to  what  extent  the  old  lady  was  looked  up  to,  as 
the  model  of  a  gentlewoman,  by  her  neighbors ;  or  the  confi- 
dence that  the  poor  had,  that  their  real  wants  would  be 
relieved  by  her,  according  to  a  scale  which  squared  with  public 
opinion,  of  their  deservings  and  necessities.  Mrs.  Warner  tho- 
roughly understood  the  character  of  the  people,  and  if  she 
considered  it  her  privilege  to  be  harsh  in  her  reproofs,  meddling 
in  her  inquiries,  and  exacting  in  her  notions  of  worthiness, 
and  of  propriety,  the  village  people  considered  it  so  likewise. 
Her  system  of  personal  supervision,  and  attendant  charity, 
was  well  suited  to  the  public  opinion  of  which  she  was  the 
centre,  and  the  character  of  our  institutions  in  that  day. 

Now  things  are  changed,  and  changing.  Every  railroad, 
every  fusion  of  parishes,  every  idea  of  the  times  which  pene- 
trates into  the  hearts  of  the  people,  serves  to  break  up  caste ; 
and,  with  its  attendant  evils,  has  at  least  this  advantage,  that 
it  must  make  all  men,  rich  and  poor,  base  their  relations  to 
each  other  less  on  relative  position,  than  on  the  ground  of  a 
common  humanity.  It  makes  men  remember  that  their  fellow 


126  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

men  have  hearts,  and  opened  for  their  entrance  to  those  hearts, 
many  broad  ways,  never  thought  of  in  the  days  of  Mrs.  War- 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Of  human  faults  poor  woman  has  but  two, 

She  nothing  right  can  say — she  nothing  right  can  do. 

PROVERB. 

"  HERE  is  great  news,  by  Jove,  Belle !  Old  Towser,  our  Mem- 
ber, is  just  dead,  and  my  friend  O'Byrne  will  dispute  the 
county." 

Thus  cried  the  Captain,  returning  to  the  breakfast-room, 
whence  he  had  been  summoned  one  morning,  early  in  February, 
to  receive  a  verbal  message,  carried  by  a  trusty  horseman  to  all 
the  influential  supporters  of  the  Blue  interest  in  that  part  of 
the  county.  The  prospect  of  an  election,  which  so  greatly  ani- 
mates "true  Britons,"  conveyed  but  very  vague  and  feeble 
notions  to  Bella's  mind. 

Not  so  to  the  mind  of  the  elder  Mrs.  Warner.  No  sooner 
had  her  son,  leaving  his  farm  business  (for  like  all  Naval  offi- 
cers on  half  pay,  who  are  possessed  of  a  few  acres,  he  was  a 
great  trier  of  what  he  called  the  experiments  of  common 
sense ;  wiser  farmers  called  it  sowing  guineas),  no  sooner,  we 
say,  had  he  started  for  the  county-town  on  horseback,  than 
the  old  lady  sent  over  the  housekeeper,  with  a  quantity  of  blue 
chintz  under  her  arm. 

"  What  is  all  that  for,  Mrs.  Buck  3"  said  Amabel,  when  en- 
tering the  drawing-room,  she  deposited  her  burden  on  the 
floor. 

"It  is  to  cover  up  the  yellow,  ma'am,"  Buck  answered. 
"  My  mistress's  principles  is  Blue,  and  we  never  have  so  much 
as  an  orange  in  her  house,  at  the  time  of  the  'lection.  And 
young  master — the  Captain,  could  not  be  bribed  to  eat  an  egg 
when  he  was  a  boy,  bless  him,  during  the  polling  time,  'cause 
of  the  yallar  in  the  yolk,  ma'am." 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  127 

By  the  close  of  the  day  all  the  county  was  alive  and  astir. 
Public  houses  were  getting  up  their  flags,  busy  fingers  were 
manufacturing  cockades  ;  the  addresses  of  the  rival  candidates, 
O'Byrne  and  Eccleston,  were  posted  on  every  dead  wall ;  can- 
vassers were  scouring  the  country ;  landlords  were  calculating 
the  votes  they  could  command,  and  the  price  that  they  should 
claim  for  the  support  they  lent  their  party ;  and  the  few  "  inde- 
pendent electors"  were  lying  in  waiting,  till  the  necessities  of  one 
or  the  other  party  should  force  them  to  buy  up  consciences 
at  famine  prices. 

It  was  the  second  morning  after  the  news  came,  and  Amabel 
was  sitting  idle,  alone,  before  her  fire ;  for  the  rug-work  she 
was  engaged  upon  being  grounded  with  buff,  was,  by  Mrs. 
Warner's  order,  put  aside,  when  the  foot-boy  announced  two  gen- 
tlemen. She  rose,  and  at  the  same  moment,  two  young  men, 
very  smart,  in  riding-dresses,  with  the  self-  satisfied  look  of 
those  prepared  for  fascination,  followed  the  servant  into  the 
room. 

"  The  lady  of  Captain  Warner,  I  presume,"  said  the  foremost, 
bowing  most  politely.  "  My  name  is  Eccleston." 

Amabel  stood  bowing,  and  motioned  to  the  strangers  to  take 
chairs. 

"  Your  husband  I  find,  madam,  is  from  home,"  pursued  the 
stranger. 

Amabel  was  sorry  he  had  gone  to  C that  morning  upon 

business  connected  with  the  Blue  Committee. 

"  At  least,"  said  Mr.  Eccleston,  "  I  may  consider  myself  for- 
tnnate  in  being  admitted  to  his  lady,  of  whose  attractions  and 
accomplishments  I  have  heard.  You  are  the  scion  of  a  noble 
family  in  France,  I  am  assured,  madam." 

Amabel  bowed. 

"  France  is  a  noble  country,"  pursued  Mr.  Eccleston — "  a 
country  with  which  it  is  our  interest  to  cultivate  the  closest 
ties.  That  last  most  bloody  war  was  a  mistake,  as  we  conceive, 
upon  the  part  of  this  country.  It  is  our  policy  henceforward 
to  preserve  peace,  to  cultivate  commercial  and  friendly  rela- 
tions, to  wreathe  the  olive  branch  with  the  laurels  we  have 
won." 


128  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  War  is  very  terrible,"  said  Amabel,  interrupting  the  rough 
sketch  of  a  speech  he  was  composing  for  the  hustings. 

"  The  present  ministers  require  to  be  closely  watched  by  an 
active  opposition  of  the  disinterested  of  this  country,"  added 
the  friend  of  Mr.  Eccleston,  "  or  we  may  fear  lest  private  views, 
the  flatteries  of  royalty,  or  the  national  tendency  of  aristocratic 
principles  should  lead  them  so  to  pander  to  the  lust  of  aggran- 
dizement among  the  autocrats  of  Europe,  as  to  overlook  the 
weal  of  nations,  and  place  the  peace  of  Europe  on  an  insecure 
foundation.  There  is  another  subject  which,  in  this  present 
Parliament,  will  engage  the  attention  of  our  leaders,  the  dis- 
abilities pressing  harshly  on  the  consciences  of  our  fellow-sub- 
jects— sufferers,  for  conscience  sake,  for  their  allegiance  to  an 
ancient  church.  I  mean  our  Catholic  fellow-subjects,"  looking 
at  Mrs.  Warner. 

"  The  Catholics  appear  to  me  not  to  be  liked  in  England," 
said  Amabel. 

"  And  you  agree  with  us"  said  Mr.  Eccleston,  "  that  a  man 
who  serves  his  God  conscientiously  ought  not  to  be  held  inca- 
pable of  serving  king  and  country.  Your  unbiassed  judgment, 
your  pure  heart,  ally  you  with  a  liberal  policy,  and  make  you 
feel,  that  either  politically  or  religiously,  it  is  an  unworthy  thing 
to  coerce  consciences.  You  would  not  compel,  I  feel  convinced, 
the  sacrifice  of  privilege  to  interest.  You  would  not  condemn 
the  man  who  voted  according  to  his  conscience  any  more  than 
one  who  worshipped  according  to  his  creed  ?" 

"  Oh !  no,"  cried  Amabel. 

"  Neither  would  your  generous  and  noble-minded  husband," 
pursued  the  Yellow  candidate. 

"  No,  I  am  sure  not,"  said  Bella,  confidently. 

"  Ah !"  exclaimed  the  candidate,  rising,  with  his  hat  pressed 
to  his  heart.  "  And  with  such  beauty — with  the  influence  of 
such  powers  of  mind — with  every  fascination,  what  may  our 
side  not  dare  to  hope,  when  its  principles  are  advocated  by 
such  a  bride  to  such  a  husband  !  We  take  our  leave,  ventur- 
ing to  hope,  at  least,  a  generous  opposition  on  the  part  of 
Captain  Warner." 

Amabel  bowed,  and  rang  the  bell. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  129 

*      -^ 

"  What  can  they  have  come  for  ?"  she  thought.  "  They 
have  not  solicited  ray  husband's  vote.  They  only  '  venture  to 
hope  a  generous  opposition.' " 

"  And,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Ecclestoa's  companion,  turning  back 
as  his  principal  went  out  of  the  door,  "  we  may  then  venture 
ourselves  to  repose,  and  to  assure  others  they  may  repose 
confidence  in  your  assurance,  that  Captain  Warner  is  too 
much  a  man  of  high  principle  and  the  perfect  gentleman,  to 
demand  the  regulation  of  the  conscience  as  the  price  of  those 
benefits  which  the  vicinity  has  the  right  to  look  for  at  your 
hands." 

Amabel  bowed  again.  The  strangers  bowed.  The  door 
closed  between  them.  An  hour  after  there  was  a  run  upon 
Booth's  shop  for  yellow  ribbon.  The  news  spread  that  the 
Yellow  candidate  had  been  seen  to  ride  smilingly  through  the 
park  gates  of  the  Cedars,  and  that  he  had  secured  the  assur- 
ance that  Captain  Warner,  though  on  the  Blue  committee, 
would  not  attempt  to  influence  the  votes  of  his  tradespeople  or 
tenant  farmers.  Never  before,  within  the  memory  of  man, 
had  the  Yellows  been  successful  in  the  village  ;  no  man  when 
he  got  up  that  morning  prepared  to  second  the  Blue  interest, 
would  have  believed  the  prophecy  that  in  a  few  hours  "  Vote 
for  Eccleston  "  would  be  scrawled  on  every  wall  and  even  along 
the  park  paling. 

The  news  like  wild-fire  ran  up  to  the  Cedars.  For  a  few 
moments  old  Mrs.  Warner  was  electrified ;  and  had  she  per- 
mitted herself  to  remain  electrified  very  long,  the  Blues  might 
have  been  worsted  in  the  close-run  election.  In  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  all  the  servants  she  could  command  were  dispatched 
over  the  neighborhood  with  the  intelligence,  that  conscience  or 
no  conscience,  promise  or  no  promise,  if  any  vote  were  given 
to  the  principles  of  the  French  revolution  and  their  representa- 
tive, Mr.  Eccleston,  Captain  Warner  and  herself  would,  for  the 
future,  give  all  their  custom  to  the  shops  kept  by  Blue  voters 
in  the  town  of  C . 

The  excited  Yellows  paused,  looked  at  each  other,  separated, 
and  sneaked  homeward,  where  their  wives,  whose  eyes  were  on 
the  home  department,  frantically  demanded,  "  how  ever  thev 

6* 


130  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

could  have  been  such  woundy  fools  as  to  put  a  word  of  fahh 
in  Mrs.  Leonard  Warner  ?" 

The  Yellow  ribbon  was  put  aside  or  burnt  The  ferment  of 
the  place  subsided.  Every  one  desired  it  should  be  forgotten 
he  had  promised  to  vote  Yellow ;  and  so  anxious  were  the  de- 
linquents to  remove  suspicion,  that  the  earliest  votes  on  polling- 
day  were  those  they  gave  to  O'Byrne,  to  the  exceeding  discom- 
posure and  disappointment  of  his  rival. 

Poor  little  Bella !  When  her  husband's  horse's  hoofs  were 
heard  in  the  avenue,  she  sprang  forth  to  meet  him,  and,  regard- 
less of  the  presence  of  several  persons  who  were  with  him,  told 
him,  clasping  his  horse's  bridle,  with  a  trembling  voice  and  eye- 
lids swelled  with  tears,  that  the  village  was  all  going  to  vote 
Yellow,  and  how  it  had  occurred.  She  needed,  in  her  agony 
of  apprehension  and  of  self-reproach,  some  kind  and  hearty 
voice  to  reassure  her  ;  and  no  one  was  capable  of  doing  this  more 
cordially  by  temperament  than  her  husband.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  dismounting,  and,  forgetting  the  Blue  interest,  thought 
only  of  assuring  her  that  things  could  not  be  so  bad  as  she 
supposed,  and  that  he  did  not  attribute  any  fault  to  her,  when 
the  dashing  Miss  O'Byrne  spoke  to  him. 

"  We  had  better  ride  down  at  once  to  the  village,  and  pro- 
tect Tom's  interests  from  the  French  principles  of  Mrs.  Leonard 
Warner." 

"  True — yes,"  he  answered.  And  the  party  turned  away  at 
full  speed,  leaving  Amabel  uncomforted.  Nor  was  she  con- 
soled when  the  captain,  returning,  told  her  there  was  not  so 
much  harm  as  they  had  feared.  She  cared  no  longer  how  the 
votes  went — Blue  or  Yellow — she  was  thinking  only  of  the 
dashing  Miss  O'Byrne,  and  the  tone  in  which  she  ordered  him. 

The  village  people,  after  this  event,  were  afraid  of  being  sup- 
posed to  be  influenced  by  her  ;  so  that  one  woman  sent  up  to 
the  great  house  to  know  if  Mrs.  Warner  would  be  pleased  to 
wish  her  to  accept  some  broken  meat  that  had  been  sent  her 
by  Mrs.  Leonard's  order.  And,  as  the  captain  scoured  the 
country  with  the  dashing  Miss  O'Byrne,  her  brother's  most 
unscrupulous  and  successful  canvasser,  and  had  to  listen  every- 
where to  multiplied  jokes  and  ironical  congratulations  on  his 


AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  13 \ 

wife's  talents  for  electioneering,  judge  if  he  did  not  sometimes 
think  that  a  high-spirited  Englishwoman,  of  the  dashing  school, 
who  could  aid  his  fortunes,  take  a  five-barred  gate,  and  be  an 
fait  iu  local  customs,  would  have  been  more  the  wife  for  him 
than  the  woman  he  had  chosen  ? 

And  Amabel,  mortified  and  miserable,  when  her  busy  hus- 
band set  her  aside  as  one  incapable  of  entering  into  his  employ- 
ments, and  preferred  to  refer  all  that  interested  him  to  Miss 
O'Byrne  and  other  dashing  women,  judge  if,  amongst  her  many 
tears,  none  ever  fell  over  the  thought  of  that  happy — happy 
future  sketched  for  her  by  Felix ;  a  future,  in  which,  not  only 
as  the  wife  but  as  the  woman,  she  would  have  had  her  part  of 
usefulness  and  action,  and  have  been  loved,  and  trusted,  and 
admired  by  her  husband,  and,  perhaps,  a  little  admired  by  other 
people  too. 

There  was  another  thought — a  thought  which  made  her 
weep,  but  which  ought  to  fill  the  young  wife's  heart  with 
bounding  hope  and  joy.  There  were  tidings  that  she  had  to 
give  her  husband,  which  would  unite  him  to  her,  she  was  sure4 
by  nature's  holiest  ties.  But  how  whisper,  with  her  arms 
thrown  round  his  neck,  the  blessed  name  of  father  ?  How 
speak  of  her  new  hopes  to  him  and  linger  over  them,  anticipat- 
ing their  blessedness,  when  his  whole  time  and  thoughts  were 
engrossed  by  the  election  ?  For  when  he  came  home  in  the  even- 
ing, wet,  tired,  and  a  little  irritable,  with  his  pockets  full  of 
lists  of  voters,  and  sat  down,  after  a  late  and  hurried  dinner,  in 
his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  absorbed  in  calculations,  to  call 
off  his  attention,  and  to  tell  him  then  the  new  hopes  he  must 
share  with  her,  would  have  been  a  profanation.  And  to  have 
him,  the  next  morning,  after  a  hasty  kiss,  go  off  to  forget  all 
day,  in  the  society  of  Miss  O'Byrne,  what  she  had  told  him, 
would  have  been  bitter  mortification. 

"  Bella,"  said  the  captain,  coming  home,  as  usual,  cold,  hun- 
gry, and  tired,  from  the  county-town  one  Saturday.  "  Bella,  I 
have  a  note  for  you  in  my  pocket,  asking  us  to  dine  on  Tuesday 
with  the  Rustmeres,  to  meet  Lord  Loudoun,  Lady  Harriet's 
uncie,  who  has  come  down  from  town,  and  Sir  John  Pawley. 
I  saw  Lady  Harriet  to-day  at  C ,  and  she  hopes  you  will 


132  AMABBL;    A    FAMILY   BISTORT. 

excuse  her  not  having  called,  as  they  have  but  just  come  down. 
Rustmere  is  on  our  committee,  and  this  dinner  is  to  be  rather 
a  political  business,  I  suppose." 

"  I  cannot  go,"  said  Bella. 

"  And  why  not  ?"  said  the  captain. 

"  Why  not — pray  ?"  said  Mrs.  Warner,  who  happened  to  be 
there. 

"  I  thought  that  Lady  Harriet ....  that  she  was  not  ....  not 
quite  a  person  whom  I  ought  to  see,"  she  faltered  with  a  blush. 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !"  said  the  captain.  "  She  is  a  gay, 
dashing  woman,  nothing  more.  Who  put  that  into  your 
head  3" 

"  When  I  told  Mrs.  Leonard  that  Lady  Harriet  was  not  a 
desirable  acquaintance  for  so  young  a  person,  so  ignorant  of 
our  customs,  I  meant  to  insinuate  nothing,  as  Mrs.  Leonard, 
from  common  report,  must  be  perfectly  aware,  that  would 
render  her  unvisitable.  Her  house  is  not  a  desirable  school  of 
life  for  a  young  woman ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  women  of  con- 
sideration in  the  county  go  there.  It  may  be  of  advantage  to 
you  to  meet  the  Earl  of  Loudoun  and  Sir  John  Pawley ;  and, 
if  Mrs.  Leonard  is  squeamish  only  when  her  husband's  wisltes 
and  the  interests  of  the  Blue  Party  are  concerned,  I  can  only 
attribute  it  to  a  want  of  knowledge  of  what  are  the  duties  of  an 
English  wife,"  said  old  Mrs.  Warner. 

The  old  lady  stayed  with  them  till  late,  irritating  both  wife 
and  husband  to  the  last  degree  by  her  ill-timed  observations. 
Both  went  to  bed  in  an  ill  humor.  The  next  morning,  albeit 
it  was  Sunday,  the  captain  started  off  in  a  post-chaise  to 
attend  a  meeting  in  a  distant  part  of  the  county ;  he  was  only 
to  be  back  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner  on  the  Tuesday.  They 
had  parted — not  in  anger — but  unkindly,  and  Bella,  in  the 
hours  that  she  spent  alone,  suffered  at  the  recollection,  and 
longed  ardently  for  this  her  husband's  longest  absence  to  be 
over,  that  all  might  be  made  right  between  them. 

Poor  child  I 

She  dressed  herself  betimes,  for  her  visit  to  the  Rustmeres,  in 
the  most  becoming  costume  she  could  put  on.  Her  husband's 
gifts  of  jewelry  encircled  her  throat  and  arms,  and  each  one  had 


AMABEL;  A  FAMILY  HISTORY.  133 

been  kissed  as  she  put  it  on.  Her  light  blue  silk  set  off  her 
clear  complexion,  and  a  cunningly  devised  coiffure  of  rich  lace 
enhanced  the  symmetrical  beauty  of  her  head. 

She  wished  to  look  lovely — she  wished  to  remind  her  hus- 
band of  her  youth  and  of  their  marriage  day ;  for  as  they 
drove  to  Foxley  she  meant  to  tell  him  all.  During  that  winter 
ride,  when  she  would  have  him  to  herself,  she  would  gladden 
his  true  heart  with  her  secret,  and,  in  the  effusion  of  that  mo- 
ment, she  would  entreat  him,  when  the  election  should  be  over 
to  take  her,  for  at  least  a  little  time,  away  from  the  influence 
of  his  mother,  and  give  her  at  length  a  fair  chance  of  acquir- 
ing his  esteem.  As  the  tender  field-flower  cannot  grow  beneath 
the  shade  of  the  proud  forest  cedar,  so  she  could  never  acquire 
consideration  and  confidence,  and  her  husband's  full  affection,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Mrs.  Warner. 

She  was  dressed ;  the  carriage  waited ;  old  Mrs.  Warner, 
who  had  come  down  to  the  cottage  to  see  how  she  looked,  was 
fidgety  and  fault-finding.  Time  was  pressing;  it  was  five 
o'clock,  and  half-past  five  was  the  appointed  dinner  hour.  It 
was  a  ride  of  seven  miles  over  cross-country  roads,  and  no  great 
speed  could  be  got  out  of  Mrs.  Warner's  fat  carriage-horses. 
The  captain  had  not  come  home. 

Bella  heard  horsehoofs  in  the  park,  and  started  up.  It  was 
not  her  husband,  but  a  messenger ;  Captain  Warner  sent  a  note. 
He  was  detained  on  business — could  not  tell  when  he  might 
see  her.  She  must  go  without  him,  and  make  his  apologies. 

"  I  dare  not  go  alone.  I  shall  send  an  excuse,"  said  Bella, 
dropping  the  paper  from  her  hands ;  but  in  a  moment  she  re- 
pented her  exclamation,  for  old  Mrs.  Warner  followed  it  up 
with  her  usual  speech  about  "  English  wives,"  and  "  the  Blue 
interest,"  and  "  French  principles,"  &c. 

"  Then  I  must  go !"  said  poor  Bella :  and  breaking  brusquely 
from  her  mother-in-law,  she  sprang  into  her  carriage,  and  gave 
the  order  to  drive  rapidly. 

With  her  head  pressed  in  her  hands,  and  leaning  against  the 
side  of  the  carriage,  crushing  the  lace  so  coquettishly  put  on, 
she  sobbed  for  the  first  four  miles,  as  though  her  little  heart 
would  have  discharged  in  tears  its  weight  of  sorrow ;  then,  as 


134  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

she  remembered  that  she  was  about  to  make  her  entry  alone  in 
an  assemblage  of  strangers  she  began  to  think  of  her  appear- 
ance, and  half  forgot  the  causes  of  her  grief,  in  the  efforts  she 
made  to  dissipate  its  traces.  She  fanned  her  swollen  eyes ;  she 
opened  the  windows,  that  the  fresh  air  might  revive  her ;  she 
renovated  her  pretty  head-dress;  and  when  the, carriage  turned 
into  the  grounds  at  Foxley,  she  sat  up  erect,  drew  her  shawl 
around  her,  and  strained  her  features  into  the  social  smile. 

It  was  a  quarter  after  six.  Her  heart  fluttered  as  they  flung 
open  the  hall  door.  Dinner  was  evidently  going  on,  and  she 
would  have  to  meet  the  dreaded  strangers  in  the  dining-room. 

Gathering  her  dress  around  her,  she  was  about  to  alight, 
trembling  with  nervous  apprehension,  when  a  wild  bark,  fu- 
rious but  joyful,  hailed  her  from  the  hall.  A  white  dog,  with 
long  curling  silky  coat,  and  pointed  ears,  pushed  past  the  Fox- 
ley  footman,  and  sprang,  leaping,  barking,  through  the  carriage 
door. 

"Barba!"  she  cried.  "Barba!  Barba!  My  own  Barba!" 
and  pressed  the  little  creature  in  her  arms,  and  wept  and  kissed 
him,  without  regard  to  the  opinions  of  the  servants,  who  were 
witnessing  the  scene. 

"  Who  brought  this  dog  here  ?"  was  her  first  question. 

"  I  believe  he  came  with  a  French  gentleman,  my  lady. 
Didn't  he,  Reynolds  ?"  said  the  footman,  looking  round. 

Then  Felix  was  alive !  Felix  was  there — and  she  about  to 
meet  him.  She,  the  wife  of  Captain  "Warner.  Her  limbs 
trembled.  For  half  a  moment  she  felt  it  would  be  impossible 
for  her  to  meet  him  ;  but  she  remembered  what  might  be  said 
against  her,  if  she  persisted  in  not  entering ;  she  thought  of 
her  husband's  wish  she  should  attend  this  gathering  of  Blue 
supporters ;  she  dreaded  old  Mrs.  Warner. 

Resigning  the  dog,  with  a  last  kiss,  to  Reynolds,  she  passed 
her  hands  over  her  brow,  and  then  pressed  them  to  her  heart. 
She  felt  she  must  retain,  if  possible,  her  presence  of  mind,  or 
at  least  the  full  possession  of  her  senses. 


AMABEL;    A  FAMILY   BISTORT.  135 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Our  course  is  onward,  onward  into  light ; 
What  though  the  darkness  gathereth  amain, 
Yet  to  return  or  tarry,  both  are  vain. 
How  tarry  when  around  us  is  thick  night  ? 
Whither  return  ?     What  flower  yet  ever  might 
In  days  of  gloom,  and  cold,  and  stormy  rain, 
Inclose  itself  in  its  green  bed  again, 
Hiding  from  wrath  of  tempest,  out  of  sight  ? 

Sonnet. — B.  C.  TRENCH. 

THE  door  of  the  dining-room  opened,  and  a  tepid  fume  of  din- 
ner, and  a  buzz  of  many  voices  issued  from  it  into  the  hall. 
The  master  of  the  feast  came  out,  retaining  his  table-napkin  in 
his  hand.  Amabel,  trembling  with  excitement,  and  forgetful 
of  the  awe  with  which  strangers  had  inspired  her,  ever  since 
she  caught  the  tone  of  society  in  England,  poured  forth  to  him 
a  torrent  of  excuses  for  her  husband,  and  regrets  for  her  late 
arrival. 

"Never  mind  it,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Mr.  Rustmere,  a 
young  man,  rather  tall,  of  as  much  consequence,  as  a  leading 
man  of  property  in  the  county,  as  his  wife  was,  as  a  leader  in 
society.  "  Warner  is  such  an  active  fellow,  that  his  friends 
must  be  content  to  Catch  him  when  they  can.  He  is  doing 
Blue  work  in  another  part  of  the  county.  The  Yellows,  I  hear, 
call  him  and  O'Byrne's  sister — ha !  ha !  the  Blue  devils  !  She 
is  a  dashing  person — a  great  flirt — and  a  prime  favorite  with 
your  husband.  We  have  old  Sir  John  Pawley  here  for  you ; 
the  chairman  of  the  Blue  Committee.  I  have  kept  a  vacant 
place  for  you  by  him." 

Trembling — leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Rustmere,  Bella 
made  her  entry  into  the  assembly.  Trembling,  she  dared  not 
raise  her  eyes,  lest  encountering  those  of  Felix,  she  should 
falter  in  the  exchange  of  civilities  with  Lady  Harriet  Rust- 
mere.  Trembling,  this  introduction  ended,  she  made  the  cir- 


136  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

cuit  of  the  table,  and  took  her  vacant  place  by  the  Bli/e  Chair- 
man. 

The  bringing  back  of  cold  soup,  and  one  after  another  of  the 
earlier  dishes,  for  some  time  occupied  her  attention.  Amongst 
the  voices  of  the  guests,  she  did  not  recognise  the  tones  so  well 
remembered,  the  tones  that  rang  in  her  ears  so  often  in  her 
dreams.  She  did  not  dare  look  up,  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
assembly,  she  fancied,  would  be  on  her ;  should  she  blush,  God 
knows  what  reports  might  be  made  to  Mrs.  Warner. 

A  low  whine  caught  her  ear ;  the  little  dog,  watching  his 
opportunity,  had  made  his  way  between  the  footman's  legs, 
into  the  room,  and  now  jumping  upon  her,  testified  its  love  and 
happiness,  by  every  possible  canine  illustration. 

"  Giu  !  Oiii !  Barba !  Down !  down  !"  said  Bella,  trying  to 
soothe  her  happy  favorite  to  lie  unnoticed  under  her  chair. 

"  Take  that  dog  off,"  said  Mr.  Rustmere. 

"  Come  away,  sir,  come,"  said  the  servant,  attempting  to 
catch  it. 

"  Colonel  Guiscard,"  cried  Mr.  Rustmere,  "  call  away  your 
dog.  He  is  troublesome  to  Mrs.  Warner." 

Colonel  Guiscard  rose. 

It  was  not  Felix ;  but  a  slightly  older,  and  more  military 
looking  man,  with  reddish  hair  and  beard,  taller  than  Felix, 
with  well  marked,  thin,  and  foreign  features. 

"  Ha  !  ha !  Colonel !"  said  their  host,  "  we  should  have  put 
you  next  to  Mrs.  Warner.  Love  me,  love  my  dog.  Ha !  ha ! 
Eh  ?  Mrs.  Warner  ?" 

Deeper  and  deeper  crimson  flushed  poor  Bella,  and,  for  the 
eyes  of  all  were  on  her  face,  she  turned  aside  to  the  old  gen- 
tleman, her  neighbor,  and  in  a  low,  trembling  voice,  to  change 
the  conversation,  asked  him  the  first  question  that  came  into 
her  head. 

"  In  what  month  may  we  expect  to  hear  the  nightingales  ?" 

"  Eh  1"  said  the  old  gentleman,  seeing  that  she  spoke,  and 
turning  towards  her. 

"  When  may  we  expect  to  hear  the  nightingales  ?"  she  re- 
peated, in  a  louder  key.  The  old  gentleman  bent  down  hia 
ear,  after  looking  at  her  vacantly. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTOEY.  137 

Bella  felt  obliged  to  shout  again. 

"  Eh  ?  What  did  you  say  ?"  said  the  old  gentleman,  bending 
his  ear  closer. 

By  this  time  all  other  remarks  were  hushed,  and  every  per- 
son at  the  table  turned  towards  her. 

"  Nightingales  !  Nightingales,  Sir  John  !"  shouted  Mr.  Rust- 
mere.  "  Nightingales  !  Mrs.  Warner  wants  to  know  when  you 
expect  t,o  hear  the  nightingales?" 

A  titter  ran  round  the  table. 

"  Eh  ?  Ah  !  very  pretty,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  I  expect 
to  be  in  town." 

Nothing  could  have  persuaded  Bella  to  make  any  further 
observation,  or  utter  more  than  "  Yes"  and  "  No,"  whilst  they 
remained  at  table. 

Ah  me !  It  took  a  weary  time  to  eat  that  weary  din- 
ner ;  and  the  ladies  sat  long  over  their  dessert,  for  they  were  all 
politicians,  and  the  county  election  interested  them  as  greatly 
as  the  gentlemen. 

Even  after  they  went  into  the  drawing-room,  the  same  con- 
versation was  renewed. 

Lady  Harriet  Rustmere,  of  whom  we  have  not  yet  spoken, 
was  a  coarse,  bold  woman,  with  plenty  of  tact,  if  not  to  please, 
at  least  to  do  what  she  pleased  with  other  people,  and  abun- 
dance of  dash  and  good-humor  about  her.  No  woman  in  the 
world  better  understood  how  to  make  the  most  of  her  position. 
Her  house  was  always  open,  her  table  always  handsome,  her 
love  of  patronage  extreme.  She  was  one  of  those  many  wo- 
men who,  if  they  have  never  put  themselves  out  of  the  pale  of 
society  by  committing  the  unpardonable  sin,  it  must  be  attri- 
buted to  position  rather  than  to  temperament  or  to  great  virtue, 
and  whom  the  world,  swift  to  judge,  pronounces  unprincipled. 

"  I  told  the  captain  I  wanted  to  introduce  you  to  Lord  Lou- 
doun,  old  Pawley,  and  one  or  two  other  men,"  she  said  to 
Amabel,  as  soon  as  they  were  in  the  drawing-room,  "  or  I  dare 
say  that  old  mother-in-law  of  yours  would  not  have  let  you 
dine  here.  I  baited  the  hook  with  my  uncle,.  Lord  Loudoun ; 
for  I  knew  that,  to  sec  a  ministerial  peer,  she  would  let  you  go 
to  the  devil.  I  had  to  catch  your  husband,  years  ago,  in  the 


138  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

same  way.  .  Though  she  does  use  her  influence  on  our  side, 
there  never  was  a  more  bigoted  old  female,  in  many  respects, 
than  Mrs.  Warner." 

Bella  looked  up  in  amazement  at  the  free-spoken  Lady  Har- 
riet, who,  as  she  said  this,  was  standing  warming  her  feet  over 
the  fire,  with  her  face  protected  by  a  screen.  Her  gown  was 
pulled  up  high  above  her  ancles.  She  had  large,  broad  feet,  a 
coarse,  stout,  but  not  ill-shaped  person,  and  large  plump  arms. 
She  was  dressed  (I  like  to  tell  how  people  dressed ;  I  am  my- 
self short-sighted,  and  have  learned  to  judge  the  characters  of 
people  much  less  by  their  physiognomy  than  their  clothes) — 
she  was  dressed  in  a  black  gauze,  spangled  with  round  gilt 
vignettes  of  three  sizes.  Her  black,  oily  hair,  which  was  cover- 
ed by  no  cap,  and  grew  far  back  upon  her  forehead,  was  put 
up  in  great  puffs  at  the  crown  of  her  head,  revealing  strongly- 
marked  and  somewhat  Jewish  features. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  seeing  Amabel  did  not  answer ; 
"  you  look  toute  ebahie.  We  shall  know  one  another  in 
time." 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  Sir  John,  only  he  is  so  deaf,  and  I  could 
not  make  him  hear  across  the  table,"  said  a  stout,  single  lady 
in  a  cap,  "  what  is  the  reason  Huddisfield  gives  seven  more  Yel- 
low votes  than  it  ever  did  before  ?  I  dare  say,  Mrs.  Warner, 
you  can  tell  me.  Your  husband  canvassed  that  part  of  the 
county." 

No.  Bella  did  not  know.  She  had  never  heard  of  Huddis- 
field. 

She  sank  at  once  in  the  estimation  of  these  ladies,  who  could 
not  comprehend  such  indifference.  "  Poor  Warner  !  He  had 
better  have  taken  Bessy  O'Byrne.  One  may  go  further  and  fare 
worse.  He  has  found  that  out  by  this  time,"  said  one  to 
another,  in  an  audible  whisper. 

Having  thus  weighed  in  a  balance  the  powers  of  the  bride, 
and  found  her  wanting,  the  ladies  gathered  round  the  fire  and 
went  on  with  what  they  had  to  say. 

"  Tell  Lady  Harriet,"  said  one  of  them  to  the  stout  lady, 
Miss  Armstrong,  "  how  you  paid  yourself  out  of  the  pockets 
of  the  Yellows." 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  139 

"  Miss  Armstrong  took  a  Yellow  bribe  !"  shouted  Lady  Har- 
riet. "Hear  !  hear!  hear!  I  will  never  believe  that!" 

"  Yes !  Yes !  I  plead  guilty,"  said  the  accused,  her  eyes 
sparkling  at  the  recollection,  "  and  this  is  how  it  was.  Bill 
Purchell  (you  know  Bill  Purchell,  Lady  Harriet? — my  man  at 
Lawton)  has  a  little  freehold,  in  addition  to  what  he  holds  of 
mine,  which  brings  him  just  within  the  qualification.  A  fellow 
came  over  to  me  late  the  other  night  to  give  me  notice  there 
was  a  Yellow  agent  down  at  Bill's,  and  he  thought  it  very  likely 
the  old  fellow  would  be  bribed  to  rat  over  to  the  Yellows. 
Now,  Bill,  you  must  know,  owes  me  a  little  matter  of  rent, 
which  I  have  not  been  hard  in  pressing  for,  because  I  knew 
his  wife  had  been  ill  and  the  lease  was  nearly  out,  and  he 
did  not  make  the  farm  answer.  Well,  I  put  on  my  garden 
bonnet  and  clogs,  and  was  off  two  miles  in  the  dark  over  to 
Lawton.  I  went  up  to  his  cottage — did  not  knock.  I  suppose 

Bill  expected  me  about  as  much  as  the  d .  I  opened  the 

kitchen-door  and  looked  in.  There  was  the  agent,  sure  enough, 
with  a  pile  of  shining  Yellow  Boys  spread  out  upon  the  table. 

" '  Hoity-toity !'  said  I,  '  my  masters.  Why  that  is  bribery 
and  corruption.  I've  caught  you  with  the  wages  of  iniquity  in 
your  hands.'  '  No,  my  lady,'  says  he,  struck  up  all  of  a  heap 
at  sight  of  me ;  '  it  is  only  a  present  from  a  brother  of  mine.' 
'  Is  it  ?'  says  I.  '  If  so,  then  prove  it.  You  promise  O'Byrne  a 
Blue  vote,  do  you  ?'  '  Yes,  I  do,'  says  he,  pushing  the  gold 
across  the  table.  '  Not  so  fast,'  said  I.  '  If  that  money  is  a 
present,  I  ought  to  have  a  share.  You  remember  the  five  quar- 
ters' rent  you  owe  me !'  He  looked  at  the  Yellow,  and  the 
Yellow  looked  yellow  enough  at  him.  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  which 
is  it  ?  Do  you  prefer  a  prosecution  for  bribery  and  corruption  ?' 
'  No,'  said  he.  And  the  end  of  it  was,  that  I  choused  the  other 
party  out  of  both  money  and  vote !  Ha !  ha !  ha !  That's  what 
I  call  a  blue  joke  !  " 

"  Capital !"  cried  Lady  Harriet.  "  Why  did  not  that  Yellow 
fool  buy  one  of  Purchell's  winter  cabbages,  and  pay  a  guinea 
for  every  grub  he  found  on  it  ?  Who  is  to  call  that  bribery  ? 
Nobody  has  a  right  to  stop  me  if  I  choose  to  give  £20  for  a  tom- 
cat or  a  cauliflower. 


140  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

Amabel  had  heard  enough.  No  one,  it  was  evident,  took 
thought  of  her.  She  stole  away  from  the  circle,  and,  passing 
through  the  division  of  the  room,  which,  separated  from  the  rest 
by  scagliola  pillars,  contained  the  harp  and  piano,  she  went  into 
the  conservatory. 

No  lamps  were  there ;  but  it  was  dimly  lighted  by  the  re- 
flection from  the  dining-room,  for  a  glass  door,  opening  on  a 
little  ante-chamber,  communicated  by  another  glass  door  with 
that  apartment.  She  could  hear  the  buzz  of  conversation 
amongst  the  gentlemen,  she  could  see  them  indistinctly  drawn 
around  the  fire  with  their  glasses,  all  save  Col.  Guiscard,  who 
sat  thoughtfully  alone  at  the  long  table,  with  a  bottle  of  claret 
untasted  at  his  side.  From  several  things  that  had  reached  her 
ear  at  dinner,  she  judged  that  he  was  staying  with  a  French 

emigrant  abbe,  long  resident  at  C ,  and  that  the  Rustmeres 

had  met  him  during  their  tour  abroad. 

He  was  Ferdinand ,  Felix's  elder  brother.  She  could 

not  be  mistaken.  She  watched  him ;  her  eyes  never  turned 
from  him  ;  she  was  tracing  the  likeness.  Felix's  brother !  Did 
he  know  her  ?  Were  his  thoughts  of  her,  as  hers  of  him  ? 

Undiscovered  in  her  retreat  by  the  servant  with  the  coffee, 
she  was  yet  found  out  by  Barba.  Alone  with  the  little  dog, 
the. Jiving  memento  of  past  days — of  her  young  life's  brief  hap- 
piness, she  gave  full  vent  to  her  tenderness  and  to  her  emo- 
tion. Her  large  tears  glittered  in  his  curls,  her  arms  were 
thrown  around  his  neck,  her  fervent  kisses  were  rained  upon 
him. 

It  was,  as  she  was  thus  engaged,  that  a  little  noise  aroused 
her.  The  gentlemen  had  risen  from  table,  and  Col.  Guiscard, 
having  opened  the  dining-room  door  which  led  into  the  ante- 
room of  the  conservatory,  was  passing  by  the  outer  door  into 
the  garden. 

Amabel  rose,  and  pressing  her  burning  forehead  against  the 
glass,  looked  after  his  tall  figure  as  he  moved,  with  rapid 
strides,  into  the  darkness.  The  little  dog  sprang  up,  scratched 
against  the  door,  and  whined. 

She  did  not  wait  to  think,  but  winding  her  lace  scarf  about 
her  head  and  neck,  she  opened  the  conservatory  door,  and  fol- 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  141 

lowed  him  into  the  garden.  The  lawn  was  white  with  snow, 
but  the  gravel  paths  were  freshly  swept.  She  followed  the 
one  which  she  had  seen  him  take,  which  led  her  by  an  easy 
sweep  around  the  shrubbery. 

It  was  the  last  time  in  her  life  she  was  permitted  to  believe 
her  least  action  of  no  consequence — the  last  time  in  her  life 
she  dared  to  follow,  without  after  thought,  the  bent  of  her  own 
impulses  or  fancies.  She  hastened  on  till,  in  a  narrow  path 
that  crossed  the  lawn,  she  spied  him  walking  rapidly  towards 
the  house,  and  then  she  slackened  her  pace.  It  struck  her  for 
the  first  time  that  he  might  think  it  strange  she  followed  him. 
She  drew  back,  therefore,  into  the  shade,  and  left  some  distance 
between  them,' intending  to  slip  after  him,  unobserved,  through 
the  door  of  the  conservatory ;  but  the  presence  of  the  little  dog 
prevented  this.  Col.  Guiscard  had  reached  the  door,  paused, 
shook  the  lock,  and  as  he  did  so,  his  little  dog  jumped  on  him. 
He  turned  and  saw  her. 

"  It  has  been  locked,"  he  said.  "  What  brings  you  here, 
Madame,  by  night,  at  this  season,  and  alone  ?" 

"  For  God's  sake,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  something  about 
Felix." 

He  shook  her  roughly  off,  for  she  had  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  lappels  of  his  coat,  involuntarily,  to  detain  him ; 
and  now  he  kicked  and  thundered  at  the  door.  A  servant 
opened  it. 

"  Enter,  madame^  said  Col.  Guiscard,  drawing  back.  She 
dared  not  disobey,  and,  with  her  face  crimsoned,  she  passed 
him.  All  the  footmen  of  Foxley  saw  her  as  she  came  hi  with 
him  from  the  garden. 

He  opened  the  inner  door  of  the  conservatory,  and  there,  too, 
she  passed  before  him ;  but  when  she  turned  upon  him  to  de- 
mand some  explanation  of  his  conduct — some  apology,  he  was 
gone. 

She  unwound  her  lace  scarf  from  her  head  and  throat ;  but 
before  she  had  recovered  her  self-possession  or  repaired  her  ruffled 
toilette,  Mr.  Rustmere  came  into  the  conservatory  with  a  peti- 
tion for  a  song.  Her  feet  were  damp,  and  her  teeth  chattered. 
As  she  re-entered  the  drawing-room,  Col.  Guiscard  was  stand- 


142  AMABEL;    A  FAMILY  HISTORY. 

ing  at  the  fire.     Lord  Loudoun,  Sir  John  Pawley,  and  others, 
were  making  up  a  whist  table. 

Whilst  the  piano  was  being  opened,  she  went  up  to  the  fire. 
Colonel  Guiscard  did  not  address  her.  She  would  have  given 
worlds  to  speak  to  him,  but  there  was  a  something  in  his  eye 
and  in  his  manner  which  assured  her  she  would  only  give  occa- 
sion for  fresh  insolence. 

She  went  to  the  piano.  She  preluded  a  little,  and  then 
struck  up  a  wild  old  Breton  air — a  song  that  Felix  loved,  a 
guerz  or  peasant  ditty  of  the  country.  She  watched  the  change 
that  came  gradually  over  her  hearer,  for  to  her  there  seemed 
but  one.  His  air  of  insolence  softened  into  one  of  fixed  atten- 
tion ;  and,  rising  from  his  listless  leaning  against  the  fire-place, 
he  bent  forward  towards  her,  all  eye  and  ear. 

The  strain  ceased,  but  she  did  not  leave  the  piano.  Satisfied 
with  what  her  essay  had  accomplished,  before  the  politeness  of 
Lady  Harriet  could  ask  her  to  resume  her  singing,  she  had 
struck  the  first  chords  of  the  Marseillaise.  8he  appealed  not 
in  vain  to  the  Frenchman,  the  revolutionist,  the  soldier  of  the 
empire.  Col.  Guiscard  drew  nearer  to  her — nearer.  His 
voice  in  the  chorus  joined  with  hers.  But  when  after  having 
sung  three  verses  of  the  original,  she  began  one  that  Felix  had 
taught  her — that  Felix  had  composed,  she  observed  Ferdinand's 
voice  falter. 

The  song  ended,  she  rose,  but  no  one  drew  near  to  compliment 
her.  The  name  of  the  air  had  been  whispered  through  the 
circle,  and  the  Blues  shrank  back  as  though  there  had  been 
treason  and  revolution  in  her  singing. 

She  stood  by  the  piano  putting  on  her  gloves.  At  length 
she  said,  abruptly,  trying  to  speak  in  a  tone  of  indifference, 

"  And  Felix— is  he  dead  ?" 

"  Who  told  you  he  was  dead  ?     Did  Captain  Warner  ?" 

"  Before  I  married  him." 

"And   marriage   has   taught  you   a   mistrust   of   Captain 
Warner  ?     You  believed  him  then,  and  now  you  disbelieve 
him?" 
.    "  Is  Felix  dead  ?"  she  repeated. 

"Tell  me  all  he  told  you." 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  143 

"  That  Felix  was  dead.  Is  lie  dead  ?"  she  said  the  third  time. 
Col.  Guiscard  clenched  his  hand. 

"  Felix  is  dead£  he  said.  "  Ask  me  no  more.  Be  satisfied 
with  that  half  truth.  He  would  not  wish  to  live  and  know  that 
fraud,  and  'shairie,  and  enmity  had  triumphed.  Nor  do  you 
wish  him  living.  His  sighs  would  trouble  the  security  of 
your  peace.  Better  his  loving  heart  should  rest  and  be  for- 
gotten." 

Amabel  had  sat  down  upon  the  music  stool,  and  made  vio- 
lent efforts  to  control  her  tears. 

"  God  knows  what  is  the  best  for  him  and  me,"  she  said  at 
length.  "  God  knows !" 

"  How  did  he  die  ?"  she  resumed  presently. 

"  Ask  your  husband  how  he  died !"  he  said  in  a  low,  distinct, 
but  almost  hissing  whisper.  "  No  man  can  better  answer  you." 

"  How  so  ?"  she  cried.     "  How  so  2" 

But  Col.  Guiscard  turned  away.     He  went  up  to  the  whist- 
table,  and  took  a  hand.    For  a  few  minutes  she  found  it  difficult 
to  recover  herself.     She  bent  over  "the  music  books,  that  her 
heightened  color  and  tearful  eyes  might  escape  notice,  and  was    * 
grateful  to  the  company  that  she  was  left  alone. 

Dreary  as  the  rest  of  the  evening  was,  she  stayed  till  the 
whist  table  was  broken  up,  when  she  was  obliged  to  inquire  for 
her  carriage. 

Mr.  Rustmere  cloaked  Jier,  and  conducted  her  across  the  hall. 
As  she  got  into  her  chariot,  Barba  tried  to  follow  her.  She 
caught  him  in  her  arms,  and  strained  him  to  her  bosom  with  a 
kiss.  As  she  did  so,  she  remarked  Colonel  Guiscard  at  the 
door,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her. 

She  beckoned  to  him.     He  obeyed. 

"  May  I  take  him  ?"  she  said,  pointing  to  Barba. 

"  As  you  will." 

"  Thank  you,  for  Felix's  sake."  She  put  out  her  hand  to 
him.  The  carriage  was  about  to  start.  He  drew  back  with- 
out touching  it. 

"  I  should  not  have  offered  you,  Madame,  the  gift  you 
have  been  pleased  to  ask,  lest  your  possession  of  my  dog, 
after  what  these  people  round  us  may  conclude  this  even- 


144  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

ing  , might  expose  you  to  unfounded  suspicion  of  previous 

acquaintance  with  myself and  compromise  you " 

She  pulled  the  check-string  furiously,  for  the  carriage  had 
just  started,  and  when  the  footman  presented  himself  at  the 
door,  he  found  her  holding  the  little  creature  in  her  arms,  the 
light  of  anger  sparkling  in  her  eyes,  and  in  her  whole  expres- 
sion. 

"  Put  out  this  dog,"  she  said,  almost  furiously.  The  order 
was  obeyed.  The  glasses  were  pulled  up.  The  carriage  rolled 
on. 

He  had  at  least  secured  an  influence  with  her.  However  she 
might  think  of  him,  she  would  think.  She  could  not  meet  him 
again  with  indifference ;  there  must  be  a  consciousness  in  her 
manner,  treat  him  kow  she  would.  She  would  act  a  part  to- 
wards him,  and  whatever  that  part  might  be.  it  would  avail 
him. 

Ferdinand  Guiscard  was  like  a  confident  player,  who,  with  a 
purpose  in  view,  at  every  turn  in  the  game  takes  his  advantage. 
His  adversary  was  inexperienced,  sensitive,  quick-tempered, 
and  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  ITL 

As  some  dreamer, 

Amid  the  wanderings  of  his  troubled  dream. 
All  on  a  sudden  finds  himself  incoiled 
In  some  strange  guilt ;  tho'  how  it  was  he  knows  not ; 
Nor  even  if  his  ;  yet  nathless  shame  and  fear 
Are  all  around  hint. 

J.  KKNYON. 

THE  carriage  rolled  on.  Some  miles  had  been  travelled,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  words  of  Ferdinand  had  just  been 
spoken,  as  though  his  face  still  darkened  the  window  of  her 
carriage.  She  did  not  require  to  think — nor  did  she  think — 
she  had  a  vain  consciousness  that  Felix  was  dead,  and  that  his 
death,  in  some  way,  compromised  her  husband;  but  all  this 


AMABEL;    A  FAMILY  HISTORY.  145 

was  indistinct  to  her,  her  one  engrossing  recollection  was,  that 
she  had  been  insulted,  her  one  absorbing  feeling  was  of  impo- 
tent rage.  Rage,  for  she  was  half  a  child.  Rage,  which  made 
her  beat  her  hands  against  the  sides  of  her  carriage,  and  which 
would  have  found  relief  in  physical  pain. 

"  That  he  should  have  dared  ....  have  dared  ....  to  sup- 
pose that  I  ....  to  suppose  that  any  one  . . . ." 

Her  anger  choked  her.  And  she  began  to  think  of  revenge — 
of  some  retaliation  for  the  unprovoked  impertinence — of  some 
motive  for  his  words. 

At  one  moment  she  would  tell  her  husband — but  she  had  a 
woman's  dread  of  bloodshed.  The  thought  was  momentary. 
And  after  all,  what  could  she  tell  her  husband  ?  Manner,  which 
cannot  be  described,  lends  the  point  to  an  insult.  She  had  been 
imprudent,  and  he  had  warned  her. 

She  would  never  see  him  again.  There  could  be  no  neces- 
sity for  that.  She  would  forget  his  insolence,  and  time  would 
wear  the  offence  away. 

Then  the  memory  of  his  manner  presented  itself  poignantly 
and  suddenly  before  her,  and  her  purpose  changed.  She 
would  go  to  him,  demand  the  reason  of  his  insult,  to  one  pre- 
pared to  welcome  him  with  kindness — to  a  young,  a  trusting, 
and,  she  owned,  a  pretty  woman.  He  should  apologize,  apolo- 
fize  upon  bis  knees  for  his  brutality.  His  insolence,  if  he 
*fired  any,  should  be  overborne  by  her  indignation. 

As  all  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  her  mind,  she 
lad  not  noticed  a  certain  indecision  in  the  movements  of  her 
tarriage ;  but  now  it  stopped,  and  the  sudden  halt  aroused  her. 
She  had  just  time  to  rise  from  her  knees,  for  in  her  excitement 
she  had  thrown  herself  down  in  one  corner  of  the  carriage,  and 
pressed  her  head  against  the  seat,  like  an  angry  child,  when  the 
footboy  opened  the  door,  with  an  "  If  you  please,  ma'am,  the 
dog  follows  us." 

The  little  creature  sprang  into  the  carriage. 

"You  may  drive  on,  William,"  said  his  mistress.  "Take 
the  dog  to  the  stables  to-night,  and  to-morrow  morning,  the 
first  thing,  ride  over  to  Foxley,  and  take  him  back  to  his 
master." 

7 


146  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

And  now,  with  little  Barba  in  her  arms,  pressed  to  her 
heart,  her  thoughts  flowed  into  another  channel.  She  recalled, 
as  connected  with  hirn,  the  bright  days  of  the  past,  in  vivid 
contrast  with  the  present.  It  woke  in  her  a  pity  for  herself, 
and  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  her  own  door,  she  had  long 
been  engaged  in  brooding  over,  and  magnifying,  her  own  do- 
mestic sorrows. 

"  Is  Captain  Warner  come  home  ?"  was  her  first  question. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  and  is  gone  to  bed,"  was  her  maid's  answer. 
"  He  bid  me  get  breakfast  for  him  by  six  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning." 

Bella  hurried  up  to  her  own  dressing-room ;  and,  as  she  pass- 
ed a  handsome  mirror,  which  formed  its  chiefest  ornament,  it 
reflected  back  her  form,  radiant  in  beauty ;  for  excitement 
always  heightened  it ;  and,  pausing  a  moment,  in  spite  of  a 
choking  in  her  throat,  she  gave  vent  to  the  feelings  with  which 
the  sight  inspired  her,  by  a  broken  exclamation  of  "Might 
compromise  ! — he  dared  .  .  . !" 

At  that  moment  her  eye  fell  on  her  watch  and  chain,  her 
husband's  present  on  her  marriage.  She  raised  them  to  her 
lips  and  kissed  the  name  engraven  on  the  watch-case,  then 
flung  it  down  on  the  table.  "  Oh  !  God,"  she  said,  snatching 
it  up  again,  "  I  am  very  unhappy." 

She  opened  her  bed-room  door  and  walked  in  softly.  Her 
husband  was  sleeping.  She  went  round  to  him  and  laid  her 
watch  and  chain  upon  the  bed,  and  knelt  down,  with  her  hands 
clasped  over  them,  and  leaned  her  head  against  his  pillow.  She 
did  not  weep,  but  her  head  was  aching  violently.  Suddenly, 
the  recollection  came  athwart  her,  that  it  was  thus  that  she 
had  knelt  by  Felix's  side  when  she  first  saw  him  on  board  the 
Sea  Gull,  and  she  started  up  as  though  a  serpent  stung  her  where 
she  had  laid  her  head.  Her  movement  startled  the  captain. 

" Ha!  little  woman,"  he  said,  putting  out  his  hand.  " It  is 
late — is  it  not  ?  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  evening  ?" 

How  tell  him  that  it  had  been  one  of  agony  ?  She  left  the 
room  without  an  answer,  and  the  captain  fell  asleep  again. 

Later,  she  crept  to  her  place  beside  him.  Her  last  act  was  to 
snatch  up  the  watch  and  trinkets  she  found  lying  on  the  coun- 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  147 

JC 

terpane,  and  she  fell  asleep,  her  flushed  cheek  pillowed  on  tho 
hand  that  held  'them,  as  though  there  were  safety  from 
some  unknown  peril,  if  these  gifts  of  her  husband  were  but 
near. 

She  fell  asleep — strange  as  it  may  seem  to  the  naturally 
wakeful ;  for  there  are  persons  easily  exhausted  by  emotion ; 
and,  when  she  awoke,  it  was  because  her  cheek  was  kissed,  and 
her  husband,  dressed,  was  standing  over  her. 

"  Good  bye,  my  little  wife,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  not  see  you  to- 
morrow, it  is  the  day  of  the  poll ;  but,  the  day  after,  I  shall 

meet  you  and  my  mother  at  C ,  and  come  home  with  you 

from  the  Chairing." 

"  Oh  !  Leonard,  stay  a  moment,"  she  cried,  starting  up  with 
an  awakened  remembrance  of  the  griefs  of  yesterday.  "I  have 
something  I  want  to  ask  you." 

"  Be  quick,  then.     I  am  in  haste,"  he  replied. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you.  It  was  to  ask  a  question — about 
Felix — Captain  Guiscard" — she  gasped,  trying  to  collect  her 
thoughts  and  to  gain  courage. 

"  What  of  him  ?"  said  the  captain,  tartly.  "  I  thought  you 
had  forgotten  him." 

"It  was  to  ask  you  how  you  heard  that  he  was  dead  ? — at 
first,  I  mean." 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  Have  you  any  doubts  of  it,  my  dear  ?" 
said  Captain  Warner.  "  The  official  evidence  is  more  convinc- 
ing than  if  I  had  told  you  he  had  died  at  Cabrera,  on  only  my 
own  authority." 

"  Cabrera !     He  died  at  Cabrera  ?" 

"  Cabrera.     Yes.     He  died  at  Cabrera,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Leonard,"  she  said,  rising  up  in  her  bed  with  that  strange 
look  he  dreaded  in  her  eyes,  "  you  have  deceived  me.  Was 
that  right  ?  You  know  more  than  you  have  told  me.  You 
have  deceived  me,  Leonard." 

"  My  love  for  you  excuses  me,"  began  the  captain,  with  a 
weak  attempt  at  gallantry.  "  The  subject  was  unwelcome  to 
us  both,"  he  continued,*'  and  I  considered  I  had  done  my  best, 
when  I  gave  you  the  fact  upon  the  best  authority.  Why  are 
you  dissatisfied  ?  The  man  is  dead.  What  has  put  him  into 


148  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

your  head  just  now  ?     Have  you  been  visited  by  bis  ghost  last 
night,  little  woman,  in  your  dreams  ?" 

"  Hush !  Hush  !"  said  Belle,  her  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  his 
face.  "  This  is  no  time  to  trifle.  Were  you  concerned  in  it  ? 
How  did  you  first  hear  that  he  was  dead  ?" 

"  How  could  I  be  concerned  in  it  ?  You  know,  as  well  as  I, 
that  Cabrera  is  an  island  upon  which  the  Spaniards  landed  the 
wreck  of  Dupont's  army.  It  was  reported  to  me  when  I  went 
there,  by  Sir  Charles  Cotton's  orders,  to  carry  relief  to  the  pri- 
soners on  the  island.  I  never  saw  him.  It  was  a  strange 
thing  he  should  be  there ;  and  the  whole  business,  as  I  heard 
it,  was  so  inexplicable  and  so  fabulous,  that  I  had  great  doubt 
if  he  were  really  dead,  until  that  letter  came  from  Annesley." 

"  He  had  a  brother,  Col.  Guiscard,  whom  I  met — "  began 
Bella. 

"  His  brother  !"  interrupted  Captain  Warner.  "  Has  that  fel- 
low been  trying  to  hold  any  communication  with  you  ?  I  forbid 
you  to  see  him.  He  is  mad ;  I  shall  have  to  shoot  him,  or  else 
get  him  put  into  a  lunatic  asylum.  The  rascal  set  upon  me 
when  I  was  in  Paris,  a  year  ago,  with  the  Allies.  Remember 
what  I  say,  Belle,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  him." 

He  left  the  room,  and  she,  turning  on  her  pillow,  hid  her 
face  in  it,  with  deep-drawn  sighs.  Every  now  and  then,  as 
some  recollection  of  her  husband  came  to  her,  she  would  press 
her  lips  spasmodically  upon  her  watch-case,  or  hold  it  shudder- 
ing from  her,  when  dark  thoughts  arose,  fraught  with  a  name- 
less terror. 

It  was  late  when  she  got  up — pale,  languid,  haggard,  and 
little  fit  for  the  duties  of  the  day, 

The  first  person  she  saw  was  the  old  lady,  who  came  in,  as  she 
sat  at  breakfast,  to  glean  some  account  of  the  party. 

"  Very  late,  Mrs.  Leonard.  Much  going  out  will  not  do,  I 
see,  for"  you.  I  never  allowed  my  engagements  to  interfere 
with  the  breakfast-hour  of  the  household,  and  never  with  the 
comforts  of  the  late  Mr.  Warner.  But  then  I  was  brought  up 
an  English  wife.  I  never  had .  any  taete  for  the  customs  of 
foreigners  ;  they  breakfast  in  bed,  I  believe.  Who  was  there 
last  evening  ? 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  149 

Bella  tried  to  enumerate  the  company. 

"  What  did  you  say  to  Lord  Loudoun  ?" 

"I  was  not  introduced  to  him,"  said  Bella. 

"  What  did  Sir  John  Pawley  say  to  you  ?"  pursued  the  old 
lady. 

"  Nothing.  Nothing  of  any  consequence."  Bella  would  not 
tell  her  the  nightingale  stk>ry. 

"  Mrs.  Leonard,"  continued  the  old  lady.  "  I  want  you  to  go 
with  me  to  call  upon  Miss  Armstrong.  The  carriage  is  to  pick 
us  up  at  the  butcher's.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  you  allow  Goose- 
foot,  contrary  to  my  orders,  to  send  you  weighing  meat  with  a 
neck  of  veal  ?" 

"  I  really  cannot  go  to-day.  I  caught  cold,  last  night,"  said 
Bella. 

Mrs.  WTarner  was  going  to  say  something  cross,  about  "  ab- 
surd coddling"  and  "  strengthening  the  constitution  ;"  but  she 
changed  the  remark  into  "  Who  is  that  ?"  as  an  open  phaeton 
drove  by  the  window. 

"  Lady  Harriet  Rustmere,"  said  the  servant,  announcing  her. 

"  I  hope  I  see  you  in  the  enjoyment  of  your  usual  health, 
Mrs.  Warner.  My  dear,  excuse  this  early  visit ;  but  an  election 
excuses  everything.  I  am  full  of  business.  You  look  pale,  you 
naughty  child.  Caught  a  cold,  eh  ?  I  know  how  you  got  that  cold 
last  evening.  I  am  going  round  to  stir  up  some  of  our  voters, 
and  I  want  your  presence  and  influence.  It  will  give  you  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  English  character.  Our  people  come 
out  twice  themselves  at  an  election." 

"  You  must  excuse,  me,  Lady  Harriet.  I  have  just  declined 
to  drive  with  Mrs.  Wrarner." 

"  Pooh !"  said  Lady  Harriet.  "  Mrs.  Warner,  I  am  an 
humble  suitor  to  you  on  behalf  of  the  good  cause  for  the  society 
of  your  daughter-in-law,  and  it  is  very  disinterested  in  me  to 
patronize  her,  for  she  cuts  me  out  sadly  with  the  gentlemen, 
Sir  John  Pawley  particularly.  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Warner,  that 
her  conversation  with  Sir  John  Pawley  last  night  amused  us 
mightily.  Such  piquant  questions  !" 

"  You  are  deeper  than  many  persons  give  you  credit  for, 
Mrs.  Leonard.  A  mask  of  simplicity  often  covers  a  great  deal 


150  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

with  foreigners.  When  I  was  a  young  wife  I  had  some  respect 

for  my  husband's  family 1  was  English  to  be  sure,"  said 

old  Mrs.  Warner,  with  a  look  of  thunder. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  not  go.  I  am  really  unwell,"  said 
Amabel,  in  a  low  voice,  to  Lady  Harriet. 

"  Nonsense,  child,"  began  the  other  ;  but  was  interrupted  by 
Bella's  little  footboy,  in  his  stable  jacket,  who  opened  the  door. 
Seeing  company,  he  was  going  out  again,  but  old  Mi's.  Warner 
called  him. 

"  What  is  it,  William  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  have  been  to  Foxley,"  said  the  boy, 
giving  his  hair  three  pulls  to  the  three  ladies,  "  and  the  gentle- 
man is  not  staying  there,  but  is  over  at  C ;  and  he  sends 

his  compliments,  and  there  is  no  answer." 

"  Answer !"  said  Bella,  indignantly,  meeting  her  mother-in- 
law's  stare. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  to  the  dog,  from  the  French  gentleman.  But 
he  sent  word  to  know,"  continued  the  boy,  anxious  to  do  his 
commission  thoroughly,  "  if  master  was  to  be  out  to-day,  and 
what  time  you  would  be  likely  to  be  at  home,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  to  be  sure !"  said  Lady  Harriet,  rising,  when  the  boy 
had  left  the  room.  "  Now  it  is  clear  a  beau  is  expected,  I  shall 
not  press  you  to  go." 

"  Yes,  Lady  Harriet,  pray — pray  let  me  go.  I  had  rather 
do  anything  than  meet  that  man  to-day,"  was  Bella's  eager 
answer. 

"  Mrs.  Leonard,"  said  the  old  lady,  so  soon  as  she  could  speak, 
"  what  errand  did  you  send  that  boy  upon  to  Foxley  ?" 

"  Col.  Guiscard's  little  dog  followed  the  carriage,"  she  re- 
plied, looking  the  picture  of  confusion,  "  and  I  sent  him  back. 
I  gave  the  boy  no  message.  I  wanted  no  answer." 

"  It  was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight,"  laughed  Lady  Harriet. 
"  But,"  she  added,  in  a  lower  voice,  "  I  cannot  but  suspect  that 
you  had  met  before." 


AMABEL:   A    FAMILY   HISTORT.  151 


CHAPTER  X. 

No  demon,  but  a  miserable  man  become  savage  and  diseased  from  circumstances.— 

S.  MARGARET  FULLER. 

"  WHAT  a  dragon  she  is ! "  cried  Lady  Harriet,  when  they 
were  fairly  rid  of  Mrs.  Warner.  "  My  wonder  is  that  you  put 
up  with  her." 

Lady  Harriet  was  in  an  open  phaeton,  and  it  was  bitter 
cold,  though  both  ladies  were  cloaked  and  furred  from  heel  to 
head. 

"  The  weather  really  is  severe  for  March,"  said  Lady  Harriet. 
"  Now  tell  me  about  Guiscard.  Have  you  known  him  before, 
my  dear  ? " 

Bella  denied  she  had,  and  made  some  remark  about  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  cold  weather. 

.Lady  Harriet  turned  her  attention  to  her  horses,  and  her 
companion  was  left  at  leisure  to  reflect  upon  the  accidents 
which  threatened  more  than  ever  to  mix  her  name  with  that  of 
Col.  Guiscard. 

They  were  barely  out  of  the  park  gates  when  a  horseman 
came  in  view.  Lady  Harriet  saw  him  first,  and  cried,  "  Look, 
look,  my  dear.  Is  that  your  husband  or  your  lover  ?  Warner 
or  Guiscard  ? " 

As  she  spoke,  Colonel  Ferdinand  pulled  up  his  horse  beside 
the  carriage,  and  honored  Amabel  with  a  familiar  stare. 

She  flushed  with  anger,  shuddered,  wrapped  herself  closer 
in  her  furs,  and  drew  back  into  the  corner  of  the  carriage. 

Col.  Guiscard  kept  his  place,  and  addressed  his  conversation 
across  her  to  her  companion.  Under  the  influence  of  his  steady 
stare  she  grew  more  and  more  uncomfortable. 

As  she  turned  over  her  situation  in  her  mind,  she  suddenly 
became  aware,  that  by  thus  keeping  up  a  show  of  resentment, 
when  so  powerless  to  avenge  her  own  wrongs,  she  was  adding 


152  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORT. 

to  the  triumph  of  her  insolent  tormentor.  It  was  giving  him 
to  understand  that  he  had  an  influence  over  her,  and  that  his 
words  and  actions  had  the  power  to  wound. 

When  she  understood  this  she  roused  herself,  sat  up  in  the 
phaeton,  and  looked  deliberately,  without  change  of  coun- 
tenance, out  of  the  carriage.  She  met  his  glances  with  a  gaze 
of  indifference,  and  made  some  trifling  observation  to  Lady 
Harriet  as  though  perfectly  careless  of  the  presence  of  Col. 
Guiscard. 

This  change  did  not  escape  him,  and  for  a  moment  he  was 
at  a  loss  to  what  he  should  attribute  it.  A  little  reflection, 
however,  on  the  suddenness  of  the  alteration  revealed  the 
truth  to  him.  He  had  not  given  her  credit  for  so  much  spirit, 
and  now,  as  the  huntsman  exults  in  the  swiftness  and  subtilty 
of  his  intended  victim,  or  the  warrior  in  battle,  may 

Rejoice  to  feel 
A  foeman  worthy  of  his  steel, 

this  display  of  gallantry  and  spirit  lent  excitement  to  the  game 
that  he  was  playing  to  her  ruin,  and  he  began  to  feel  a  species 
of  respect  for  her. 

"  I  am  glad  I  can  admire  her,"  he  said  to  himself,  musingly, 
as  he  checked  his  horse  whilst  making  these  reflections  and  de- 
termining his  line  of  conduct  towards  her. 

Resuming  his  place  by  her  side,  and  continuing  his  conver- 
sation with  Lady  Harriet,  he  rode  on,  talking  upon  all  kinds 
of  subjects  with  a  general  knowledge  and  a  fluency  that  proved 
him  an  adept  in  the  art  of  conversation.  Yet  he  talked  mock- 
ingly ;  his  observations  were  seasoned  with  a  dry,  telling  epi- 
grammatic raillery,  the  very  thing  to  give  success  in  a  Parisian 
salon.  He  talked  from  the  head,  not  from  the  heart;  yet  now 
and  then  in  directing  an  observation  to  Amabel,  he  made  her  feel 
that  something  lay  deeper  in  his  heart  to  which  she  had  the 
clue.  Captain  Warner  had  also  a  high  reputation  for  conver- 
sational ability  ;  but  when  he  laid  himself  out  to  be  agreeable, 
it  was  his  good-natured  heartiness  that  secured  his  pleasing. 
His  efforts  to  please  were  all  from  himself  and  in  himself.  Pro- 
vided only  he  was  liked,  he  cared  little  for  the  itftelligence  or 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  153 

the  character  of  mind  of  his  companion.  Col.  Guiscard,  oh 
the  contrary,  owed  all  his  power  of  pleasing  to  the  conscious- 
ness he  gave  to  others  that  they  were  agreeable  to  himself.  He 
exercised  a  magnetic  influence,  by  means  of  which,  in  other 
minds,  he  reproduced  his  own. 

Amabel  was  astonished  at  the  effect  of  his  conversation. 
The  more  agreeable  she  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  him, 
the  more  resentment  she  felt. 

Her  only  thought  was  how  she  hated  him,  yet  every  moment 
was  deepening  an  influence  that  she  was  not  aware  of;  and 
increased  the  feeling  of  triumph  at  his  heart,  though  it  was  no 
longer  his  policy  to  display  that  feeling  to  her. 

Suddenly  the  carriage  stopped  at  a  road-side  public-house, 
where  Lady  Harriet  wanted  to  cajole  the  landlord. 

"  You  need  not  get  out  here,  my  dear,"  she  said ;  "  sit  still." 

"  Yes,  Lady  Harriet,  I  had  rather,"  Bella  replied,  rising  to 
follow  her.  She  caught  a  sudden  gleam  from  Ferdinand's  dark 
eyes,  such  a  gleam  as  shoots  from  the  eye  of  the  wild  beast  or 
the  maniac,  when  they  know  their  power  is  felt  and  that 
defenceless  man  is  afraid  of  them. 

Bella  met  the  glance  with  firmness,  called  up  all  her  resolu- 
tion, drew  her  furs  closer  round  her,  and  sank  back  into  the 
carriage. 

Col.  Guiscard  came  round  to  her;  she  looked  boldly  out 
upon  the  landscape,  with  her  face  turned  towards  him.  It  was 
a  cold,  calm,  vacant  look,  which  seemed  to  take  him  in  without 
observing  him.' 

"  Do  I  owe  you  no  explanation  of  my  motives  ?"  he  said, 
stooping  towards  her. 

"  None,"  she  replied,  looking  at  him  firmly.  "  The  fact  of 
your  insolent  behavior  was  enough.  I  have  no  concern  nor 
interest  in  your  motives." 

"  But  you  cannot  judge  of  my  conduct  without — " 

"  I  have  no  curiosity  to  judge  you." 

After  a  pause,  "  I  was  a  brute  last  night,"  he  said. 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  You  are  very  unkind  !"  He  tried  to  take  her  hand.  Sho 
drew  it  from  hiA  steadily. 

Y* 


154  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  "  I  am  here,  compelled  to  listen  patiently, 
against  my  will,  to  any  impertinence  you  may  be  pleased  to 
address  to  me.  Let  that  suffice.  Do  not  presume  to  touch  me !" 

"  I  am  ready  to  acknowledge,"  he  said,  not  appearing  to 
notice  her  indignation,  "  that,  last  night,  I  wronged  you."  A 
little  movement  of  her  eyelids  only,  told  how  much  she  felt 
that  he  had  wronged  her.  "  I  thought  you  careless  and  insen- 
sible. Not  the  woman  I  had  pictured  to  myself  as  her  whose 
cherished  name  was  on  my  brother's  lips  till  he  died." 

"  Oh  !  tell  me  how  he  died  !" 

"  I  dare  not  tell  you  how  he  died ;  but  I  was  with  him. 
Hunger,  disease,  and  mental  suffering  did  their  work.  He 
wasted  day  by  day ;  but  confidence  in  your  love  was  his  sup- 
port. His  eye  beamed  always  when  he  spoke  of  you.  So 
young !  to  be  cut  off  by  such  cruel  fate  !  So  young !  to  be  the 
victim  of  his  love  !  And  he  who  loved  so  passionately — whose 
very  life  was  almost  breathed  away  in  words  of  love,  to  be  so 
soon  forgotten  !  Forgive  me  if  I  judged  unjustly.  It  was  only 
by  appearances  I  could  judge." 

A  pause  followed.  As  soon  as  Bella  could  gain  voice,  she 
asked,  "  But  why  not  tell  me  how  he  died  ?  Why  did  he 
leave  me  ?" 

"  Do  you  believe  that,  of  his  own  will,  he  left  Valetta  *  Have 

you  never  heard .  Do  you  believe  that  there  has  been  no 

treachery  to  both  of  you  ?  Is  this  your  love  ?  Can  you  believe 
all  other  men,  and  withhold  trust  from  Felix  only  ?" 

"  I  do  not  mistrust.  I  only  believe  on  evidence.  Did  not 
Felix  leave  me  ?  Does  not  deep  mystery  hang  over  his  depar- 
ture ?"  said  Bella,  with  some  spirit,  in  spite  of  her  tears. 

"  Poor  child !"  said  Ferdinand.  "  It  is  better  you  should 
think  so.  I  will  not  come  with  dreadful  revelations  to  distract 
your  married  peace.  Felix  must  still  be  the  victim  to  hard 
thoughts ;  his  shall  be  in  death  the  same  fate  that  in  life  his 

O  ' 

love  would  have  accepted.  He  shall  be  sacrificed  to  the  heart's 
peace  of  the  woman  he  loved." 

"  Why  sacrificed  ?  Explain  yourself.  Col.  Guiscard,  I  im- 
plore you  to  explain  yourself.  The  truth  cannot  destroy  my 
peace  of  mind." 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTOKY.  155 

"  I  dare  not  put  your  generosity  to  such  a  proof,"  cried  Col. 
Guiscard.  "  Yet,  for  my  dead  brother's  sake,  I  will  not,  on  my 
own  responsibility,  withhold  this  knowledge  from  you.  But, 
were  I  to  reveal  the  truth,  it  must  recoil  on  Captain  Warner. 
Are  you  prepared  to  sacrifice  your  husband  to  the  dead  Felix, 
and  do  justice  to  his  memory  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  that  which  the 
man  you  ha^e  married  has  purposely  concealed  from  you? 
Shall  I  bid  you  curse  your  marriage-day  ?  Curse  the  fatal  love- 
liness which  tempted  crime  ?  Shall  I  harrow  all  the  womanly 
tenderness  yet  lingering  in  your  heart,  both  for  the  man  who 
married  and  the  man  who  loved  you  ?' 

"  Hush  !  Hush  !"  cried  Bella,  starting  up,  and  almost  cover- 
ing his  mouth  with  her  hand. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Lady  Harriet,  stepping  into  her 
carriage,  attended  by  the  landlord,  bowing  to  her,  behind. 
"  Well,  to  be  sure !  I  can  make  some  shrewd  guesses,  Colonel 
Guiscard.  (To  Bergholt,  Thomas.)  My  dear,  I  recommend  you 
Owley.  He  is  a  Blue  voter,  and  has  very  good  things.  I 
advise  you  to  step  in,  whenever  you  come  over." 

"  Lady  Harriet,"  said  Bella,  clinging  to  her  arm,  "  please 
take  me  home  ;  I  am  really  too  ill  to  go  further." 

"  Bless  me  I1'  said  Lady  Harriet,  "  she  is  pale.  What  have 
you  been  saying  to  her,  Col.  Guiscard  ?  Never  mind.  Keep 
out  of  her  sight.  Tell  the  coachman  to  drive  fast  to  The 
Cedars.  We  should  be  there  quicker,  if  the  carriage  could  get 
through  Water-lane.  Ride  on,  colonel ; — that  will  do.  I  can 
attend  to  Mrs.  Warner." 


156  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

There  are  who,  darkling  and  alone 

Could  wish  the  weary  night  were  gone  ;         * 

Though  morning's  dawn  can  only  show 

The  secret  of  their  unknown  woe. 

Who  pray  for  sharpest  throbs  of  pain 

To  ease  them  of  doubt's  galling  chain. 
"  Only  disperse  the  cloud,"  they  cry, 
"  And  if  our  fato  be  death,  give  light  and  let  us  die." 

KEBLE. — CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

A  RIVER  winds  through  the  village  near  which  The  Cedars 
stands.  A  tortuous  and  sluggish  river,  with  the  rich  meadow- 
lands  of  the  valley  on  either  side ;  and,  though  navigable  only 
for  barges  at  the  point  we  are  describing,  ten  or  twelve  miles 
further  on  its  course  it  opens  out  into  a  broad  estuary,  and 
ships  of  burden  sail  upon  its  waters  up  to  its  port,  which  stands 
not  immediately  upon  the  sea.  The  village  itself,  surrounding 
the  fine  church  famed  for  its  square  tower,  lies  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  crowned  by  the  park  of  The  Cedars.  It  consists  princi- 
pally of  one  long  street  with  a  branch  to  the  left,  leading  to 
the  water-mill,  an  ugly,  square  construction,  which  has  a  dam 
across  the  river,  and  where,  when  the  wheels  are  at  work,  the 
floodgate  makes  a  miniature  cascade.  The  river,  at  this  point, 
was  spanned  till  lately  by  a  wooden  foot-bridge,  across  which, 
about  one  o'clock  upon  the  morning  of  the  morrow,  Amabel 
was  passing  with  her  husband's  little  boy. 

Already  the  child  .had  learned  to  love  her.  Little  as  he  had 
seen  of  his  step-mother,  he  had  found  out  she  was  a  pleasant  play- 
mate; he  knew  she  could  tell  funny  stories ;  he  was  sure  of  never 
being  teased  by  her  for  childish  attentions,  and  there  was  some- 
thing about  her  which  made  him  always  confident  of  sympathy 
and  love.  Katie  Warner  she  had  rarely  seen.  The  old  lady 
had  put  her  at  a  strict  school  in  the  neighboring  village,  and 
her  Christmas  holidays  had  been  passed  at  Brighton  with  a 
kinswoman  of  her  mother's,  a  Miss  Taylor. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  15*7 

The  boy,  a  pale  and  sickly  child,  with  a  high  spirit,  was  bois- 
terously glad  of  his  release  from  Mrs.  Mathers.  He  ran  back- 
wards and  forwards  like  a  dog  before  her,  boasting  of  what  he 
could  do,  and  darfd  to  do,  with  what  we  might  call  an  Irish  dis- 
regard of  the  current  value  of  words.  He  was  suffered  to  do 
and  say  pretty  much  what  he  pleased  without  reproof  or  obser- 
vation, for  the  thoughts  of  his  step-mother  were  pre-occupied, 
and  there  were  cares  that  weighed  upon  her  spirit  which  all  his 
random  prattle  could  not  charm  away. 

"  I  hear  something  splashing  along  Water-lane,"  she  said 
at  length,  rousing  herself,  as  they  stood  upon  the  little  bridge, 
with  the  mill  lock  on  their  left,  and  the  second  lock  of  the  river 
at  some  distance  on  their  right  hand.  Johnny  paused  a 
moment,  and,  holdisg  by  his  step-mother's  skirts,  tried  to  climb 
up  by  the  railing. 

"  Stand  down,  Johnny.  Water-lane  is  deep.  At  this  sea- 
son," she  added,  "  I  fancy  few  people  come  down  there." 

"  It's  a  bullock  got  in.  He's  got  in  there,"  said  Johnny, 
jumping.  "A  great,  big,  fat  bull.  I'm  not  afraid  of  him. 
He'll  run  at  you" 

"  Let  us  go  and  see,"  said  Bella. 

u  Yes,"  cried  the  boy.  "  They  drive  them  in  here  to  rest  on 
their  way  to  London.  They  are  sometimes  very  savage — very 
savage  in  this  field." 

"  Stay  here,  then,"  said  Bella,  and  hurried  alone  into  the 
meadow.  She  parted  the  alders  that  overhung  the  lane,"  a 
torrent  tributary  of  the  river  in  winter — a  bed  of  stones  in  sum- 
mer-time. 

"  It  is  no  bullock,  Johnny,"  she  cried.  "  You  may  come. 
It  is  a  man  and  horse  struggling  in  the  water." 

The  horse  was  slipping  upon  the  bed  of  slimy  pebbles,  and 
his  rider  was  with  difficulty  holding  him  up.  At  the  sound  or 
her  voice  he  turned  towards  her.  Bella  drew  back  suddenly.  It 
was  Col.  Guiscard. 

"Oh  !  see,"  shouted  her  little  step-son.  "  They  are  letting 
out  the  water  from  the  mill.  He  will  get  into  the  stream ;  it 
will  carry  him  away.  He  will  go  floating,  floating  through 
the  bridge  out  into  the  great,  wide,  big  sea  yonder." 


158  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

At  tliis  moment  little  Barba,  who  accompanied  the  Colonel, 
scrambled  up  the  bank  to  where  they  stood.  Col.  Guiscard 
saw  his  danger.  Bella  saw  it  too.  A  few  steps  further,  and  his 
horse,  swept  off  his  feet  by  the  rush  of  the  seething  mill-stream, 
would  be  dashed  against  the  bridge,  and  drawn  under  it. 

"  Col.  Guiscard  !"  she  shouted.  "  Turn  your  horse's  head. 
Here  is  a  landing-place,"  and  parting  the  bushes,  she  showed 
him  a  bullock  track  between  the  alders. 

Reining  his  slipping,  frightened  horse  with  a  powerful 
hand,  he  succeeded  in  turning  his  head  towards  her.  The 
moment  was  critical.  Bella  looked  on  in  terror.  A  moment 
more,  and  the  snorting,  dripping  animal  struck  his  fore-feet  on 
the  bank,  and  stood  trembling  and  powerless,  safe  on  terra 
firma. 

Col.  Guiscard  sprang  off. 

"  Now  I  can  speak  a  few  words  with  you  alone."  he  cried, 
seizing  her  hand  and  pressing  it  warmly.  "  Forgive  me  ! — for- 
give me,  sweetest  lady,  whom  I  dared  to  wrong  before  I  under- 
stood." 

"  Let  me  go,  sir,"  cried  Amabel,  struggling  to  get  free. 

"  Hear  me,"  cried  Ferdinand,  on  his  knees  before  her. 

"  I  will  not  hear,  sir.  Get  up,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  great 
irritation. 

"  I  came  here  to  see  you,"  said  Ferdinand,  slowly  obeying 
her.  "  It  is  the  last  time.  I  am  going  back  to  France.  Have 
you  heard  the  news  ?" 

"  What  ?"  she  cried,  with  her  manner  changed  at  once.  "  Is 
Felix  come  ? — Is  Felix  living  ?" 

"Felix,"  he  said,  "died  long  ago.  The  emperor  has  escaped 
from  Elba." 

"  Napoleon  !"  She  clasped  her  hands,  and  for  a  moment 
both  forgot  their  relative  situations  in  one  common  enthusiasm. 

"  Now  hear  me.  It  is  the  last  time  I  can  explain,"  began 
the  Colonel. 

"  I  will  not  hear  you,"  said  Amabel.  "  You  make  me  miser- 
able— more  miserable  than  I  was  before  I  knew  you.  I  wished 
•when  we  first  met  to  have  approached  you  as  the  brother  of 
Felix,  one  dear  to  me — yes,  dear  to  me,  in  that  relation.  You 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  BISTORT.  159 

repulsed  me — you  insulted  me,  and  now  you  come  to  tell  me, 
as  you  told  me  yesterday,  when  I  could  not  resent  it,  that  it 
was  not  at  me  alone  you  aimed  your  insults,  but  through  me 
at  my  husband." 

"  You  have  bitter  thoughts  of  him,"  he  said,  "  or  you  would 
not  so  pettishly  repulse  all  explanation." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  turned  away. 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "before  you  go,  hear  this.  That  Felix  left 
a  dying  message  for  you,  which  I  cannot,  will  not,  am  bound 
not  to  deliver  till  the  mystery  of  his  departure — the  manner  of 
his  death  has  been  revealed  to  you." 

She  stopped,  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Captain  Warner  can  do  this,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  you  have 
already  questioned  him  ?" 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  Had  you  been  told  by  him  I  might  have  spoken." 

She  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  brow.  She  had  no  power 
to  decide.  She  only  felt  that  the  moment  was  rapidly  passing 
away  for  her  decision.  That  she  was  called  upon  to  choose 
between  her  first  love  and  her  husband.  That  whilst  on  the 
one  hand  this  was  the  last  opportunity  she  might  ever  have  to 
hear  the  last  words  and  justification  of  Felix,  on  the  other  it 
was  a  fearful  thing  for  a  married  woman  deliberately  to  choose 
to  hear  in  favor  of  a  lover  that  which  she  knew  beforehand 
was  to  implicate  her  husband.  But  Captain  Warner  had  not 
been  frank  with  her  in  the  first  instance.  There  was  the  greatest 
sting. 

Col.  Guiscard  stood  and  watched  her.  The  struggle  in  her 
mind  was  his  triumph.  He  had  been  aiming  to  produce  it  ever 
since  he  saw  her.  Whatever  her  decision  in  the  case  might 
be,  it  would  avenge  him  of  his  adversary.  Should  her 
sense  of  allegiance,  as  a  wife,  yield  to  the  desire  to  justify  her 
early  lover,  he  would  build  on  this  first  step  of  conscious  wrong 
the  firm  foundation  of  his  future  power.  Even  should  duty 
prevail  over  love,  he  had  his  triumph — he  had  stufied  with 
thorns  her  marriage  pillow. 

God  knows,  poor  child,  how  she  would  have  chosen.  Which- 
ever way  it  had  chanced,  she  would  have  repented  her  decision. 


160  AMABEL;    A  FAMILY  HISTORY. 

Probably  some  accidental  circumstance  would  have  settled  it ; 
for,  as  a  modern  philosopher  has  observed, 

"  The  power  of  accident  is  strong,  where  the  strength  of  design  is  weak." 

The  time  was  passing.  She  had  lost  the  power  to  think ;  or, 
rather,  her  thoughts  were  wandering  to  happy  days  and  sunny 
Malta,  contrasting  "  what  was  now,  with  what  had  been." 

Leaning  against  one  of  the  wooden  posts  which  protected  the 
little  bridge  from  the  intrusion  of  the  cattle,  with  her  arms  close 
folded  over  her  heaving  bosom,  Amabel  Warner  stood  deciding 
her  own  destiny. 

Her  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  foaming,  eddying  waters 
of  the  river,  and  as  she  watched  the  swift  flowing  of  the  current, 
a  vague  feeling  absorbed  all  her  thoughts,  that  it  would  be 
happiness  thus  to  pass  away  into  an  unknown  future,  and  leave 
the  past  behind. 

Her  choice  ?  "  I  cannot  tell,  God  knoweth."  She  herself 
perhaps  never  knew.  For  the  moments  passed  as  swiftly  as  the 
waters ;  when  suddenly  there  was  uttered  at  some  distance  a 
wild,  terrified,  piercing  cry.  In  a  moment  her  still  form  was 
reanimated  by  terror.  The  child,  whom  she  had  quite  forgotten 
in  the  deep  and  agonizing  interest  of  her  conversation  with 
Ferdinand,  had  been  amusing  himself  with  the  dog.  Perhaps 
Barba  had  indulged  some  canine  feelings  in  a  bark  of  bravado 
at  the  cattle ;  at  any  rate  he  drew  upon  himself  the  attention 
of  three  or  four  young  bullocks  at  the  further  end  of  the  large 
field,  and  when  Amabel  was  roused  by  Johnny's  frightened 
scream,  these,  with  their  heads  down  and  their  tails  raised,  were 
in  full  career  after  the  dog,  which  ran  after  the  child,  who  was 
hastening  with  all  the  speed  that  terror  lent  his  little  legs, 
directly  away  from  Col.  Guiscard  and  herself,  along  the  narrow 
barge  path  that  led  beside  the  river. 

With  a  scream  more  terrified,  more  agonized,  more  piercing 
than  the  child's,  Amabel,  in  her  turn,  ran  in  pursuit  of  them. 
The  dog  turned  off  to  the  left,  the  bullocks  after  him,  and  they 
were  soon  half  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Johnny,  at  the  further 
end  of  the  field  ;  but  the  child  did  not  slacken  his  pace.  In 
vain  his  step-mother  called  to  him  to  stop.  He  ran  on,  still  be- 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  161 

lieving  the  dog  and  the  oxen  were  behind  him.  There  was  a 
low  fence  and  a  ditch  that  separated  this  meadow  from  its  neigh- 
bor. A  hurdle  had  been  put  up  where  it  crossed  the  path.  The 
child,  only  anxious  to  put  this  barrier  between  himself  and  his 
imaginary  pursuers,  attempted  to  get  round  it  on  the  river  side. 
The  green  weeds  on  which  he  set  his  foot  were  treacherous.  His 
little  hands  strove  to  grasp  the  hurdle ;  it  trembled,  flew  from 
him,  and  he  was  in  the  water. 

Amabel,  who  reached  the  spot  a  moment  after,  was  about  to 
plunge  in  after  him,  when  she  was  seized  and  violently  flung 
back  by  the  strong  arm  of  Col.  Guiscard. 

Recovering  herself,  she  saw  him  throw  off  his  coat,  and  spring 
from  the  bank  into  the  rapid,  rushing  water.  The  river  at  that 
point,  though  not  wide,  was  very  deep,  and  one  of  the  boys  from 
the  Grammar  School  had,  the  year  before,  been  lost  there. 

The  child  had  sunk,  and  came  up,  borne  by  the  current,  at 
some  distance  towards  the  other  side  of  the  river.  The  river 
was  running  very  swiftly  at  the  time,  aggravated  by  the  addi- 
tion of  the  rapid  waters  from  the  mill-stream,  but  Col.  Guiscard 
was  a  first-rate  swimmer,  and  struck  out  boldly,  though  ena 
cumbered  with  his  boots  and  spurs.  A  second  time  the  boy 
sank.  When  he  rose  again  his  preserver  was  near  him.  He 
caught  him  by  the  little  dress,  that  floated  like  the  bell  of  some 
large  flower  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  They  were  close  to 
the  lock  gates,  and  nearer  to  the  right  bank  of  the  river  than 
the  left.  It  was  useless  to  attempt  to  swim  with  his  burden 
back  across  the  stream.  Col.  Guiscard,  with  great  exertion,  for 
the  bank  was  very  steep,  landed  safely  on  the  other  side. 

"  Cross  the  field  in  a  straight  line,"  shouted  Amabel  across 
the  water.  "  Take  the  lane  behind  the  workhouse,  and  that 
will  lead  you  to  the  back  of  our  cottage." 

She  herself,  taking  the  longer  way  across  the  bridge,  followed 
them.  Over  the  fields  and  through  the  lane  by  which  she 
had  directed  him,  she  ran,  without  regard  to  paths  or  fences,  or 
anything,  save %  shaping  a  straight  course.  Her  bonnet  was 
flung  back,  her  hair  had  been  thrown  down ;  the  people  who 
met  her  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  But  she  did  not 
heed  them ;  she  had  not  breath  to  speak.  She  ran  so 


162  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

swiftly  as  to  reach  her  own  door  at  the  same  moment  as  Ferdi- 
nand, when,  taking  his  insensible  burden  from  his  arms,  she 
bore  the  boy  up  stairs,  and  laid  him  on  her  bed. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

And  here  was  plenty  to  be  done, 

And  she  that  could  do  it  great  and  small, 

She  was  to  do  nothing  at  all. 

R.  BROWNING.    FLIOHT  or  THE  DUCHESS. 

"  WILL  he  live  ?"  cried  Amabel  to  the  apprentice  of  the  village 
surgeon  and  apothecary. 

Pale  lips  ask  daily  the  same  question,  and  weeping  eyes  fas- 
tened upon  the  solemn  face  of  the  physician,  anticipate  the 
reply. 

As  she  spoke,  she  was  kneeling  by  the  bed  applying  warm 
flannels  to  the  feet  of  the  drowned  child,  and  such  other  simple 
remedies  as  her  experience  suggested.  She  did  not  pause  in 
her  employment  as  she  asked  the  question.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  was  afraid  to  lose  some  precious  moment  that  might 
assist  in  his  recovery. 

Just  then  the  bed-room  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Buck,  the 
housekeeper,  came  into  the  room.  She  took  the  flannel  out  of 
the  hands  of  Amabel,  and  remarked,  as  she  did  so,  "  Leave  all 
this,  if  you  please,  to  me.  I  am  responsible  for  the  dear  child 
to  Mrs.  Warner.  I  have  sent  a  man  and  horse  after  my  mis- 
tress, who  is  gone  to  Miss  Armstrong's  to  pass  the  day.  You 
had  better  leave  all  this  to  the  young  man  ana  me,  and  go 
down  stairs,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

"  /  leave  the  child  !  /  leave  the  child  to  you  ?  "  cried  Ama- 
bel, looking  up  suddenly. 

"  You  had  better,  ma'am.  The  child  is  not  put  under  your 
care,  but  my  mistress's." 

Mrs.  Warner  entered.     "  She  will  settle  it,"  continued  Buck. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  163 

"  Pray,  ma'am,  is  it  me,  or  young  Mrs.  Warner,  that  you  wish, 
should  attend  upon  the  child  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Leonard,"  said  the  old  lady,  her  lips  quivering  with 
emotion.  "  Leave  this  room  ;  the  rest  of  the  house  is  clear." 

Amabel  rose  from  her  knees,  and  cast  an  indignant  look 
around  her.  The  housekeeper  and  the  apprentice  were  con- 
sulting over  their  patient's  bed. 

"  Look  as  you  will,  Mrs.  Leonard.  Aye,  look  as  proud  as 
Lucifer,  as  bold  as  brass  before  me ;  but  I  have  heard  such 
things  of  you  to-day  as  ought  to  humble  you  into  the  very 
dust,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"  This  is  no  place  to  quarrel,  ma'am,"  said  Amabel.  "  I  at 
least  respect  a  death-bed." 

This  said,  she  left  the  room.  She  heard  the  bolts  drawn 
after  her;  but  she  could  not  tear  herself  away.  She  knelt 
down  at  the  door,  hearkening  to  every  sound.  She  heard  the 
servants'  voices  there ;  they  were  permitted  to  enter  by  the 
back  staircase,  whilst  she  was  kept  away.  She  heard  the 
authoritative  voice  of  Mrs.  Buck,  the  solemn  voice  of  the  young 
man,  the  apothecary,  the  trembling  voice  of  the  poor  grand- 
mother ;  at  last,  a  tiny,  feeble  voice,  asking  some  incoherent 
question.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  joyful  cry. 

Then,  at  last,  she  went  down  stairs ;  her  heart  swelling  with 
indignation  against  old  Mrs.  Warner,  with  contempt  for  the 
littleness  which  had  exposed  her  before  inferiors,  and  with  deeply 
wounded  pride.  A  servant,  passing  through  the  hall,  gave  her 
a  letter,  adding,  "  The  gentleman  desired  me  to  say,  ma'am,  he 

should  not  leave  C to-morrow,  as  he  mentioned,  but  should 

put  off  his  journey  in  hopes  to  hear  from  you." 

Bella  took  the  letter.  Her  heart  beat  as  she  opened  it ;  but 
it  was  only  an  invitation  from  Lady  Harriet  to  dine  that  day 
and  sleep  at  Foxley,  and  go  with  their  party  to  the  Chairing  at 

C .  'She  stood  with  it  in  her  hand  before  the  fire,  with 

many  thoughts  fast  crowding  on  her  mind,  when  a  noise  at  the 
window  drew  her  attention.  It  was  Colonel  Guiscard  on  horse- 
back. He  had  ridden  close  up  to  the  house,  and  was  tapping 
with  his  whip  upon  one  of  the  window-panes. 

She  threw  open  the  window.     "  He  lives  !"  she  said.  "  He 


164  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

lives !  The  gratitude  of  my  whole  life  will  be  too  little  to  repay 
you,  Col.  Guiscard !" 

He  leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Oh !  had  you  been  but  true  to  Felix  longer — had  you  de- 
layed this  marriage — all  might  have  been  well.  Felix's  wishes 
would  have  been  fulfilled.  My  life's  devotion  must  have  secured 
your  happiness.  And  even  yet " 

A  rough  hand  from  within  pulled  Bella  from  the  window. 
Ferdinand  waved  a  farewell  and  rode  off.  Bella  turned  and 
confronted  Mrs.  Buck,  sent  down  by  Mrs.  Warner. 

"  My  mistress  desires  you  will  keep  to  this  room,  ma'am,  and 
not  stir  till  she  can  see  you,  which  will  be  after  the  doctor  from 

C ,  that  I  have  sent  to  fetch,  has  been  and  gone.  The 

dear  child  has  come  to  himself,  and  spoken  a  little ;  but  he  had 
better  not  have  spoken,  for  every  word  he  said  was  worse  to  my 
mistress's  heart  than  a  dagger."  Here  Mrs.  Buck's  manner 
changed  suddenly.  Overcome  by  virtuous  indignation,  and,  I 
may  add  also,  with  a  deep  regard  for  the  peace  and  honor  of 
the  family,  she  exclaimed,  vehemently,  "  Oh !  you  wicked — 
wicked  foreign  woman,  you  !" 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  the  effect  this  had  on  Amabel's  excited, 
wounded  feelings,  on  a  temper  equally  uncurbed  and  proud. 
This  from  an  inferior,  in  her  own  house,  and  she  powerless 
to  resent  it !  Now,  indeed,  she  felt  utterly  friendless,  a  foreigner, 
forlorn.  She  bit  her  lips  till  Mrs.  Buck  had  swept  out  of  the 
drawjng-room,  and  stood,  looking  after  her,  without  any  change 
of  countenance.  She  would  not,  for  the  world,  have  let  her  see 
how  much  her  words  had  moved  her.  To  be  alone,  struggling 
alone,  with  an  injustice,  how  hard  it  is  !  How  little  the  con- 
sciousness of  innocence  will  bear  one  up,  until,  on  principle,  we 
have  learned  to  rest  satisfied  with  the  testimony  of  a  good  con- 
science before  God !  Her  conscience,  however,  would  have 
reproached  her  had.  she  consulted  it,  not  in  the  way  that  Mrs. 
Buck  imagined,  but  with  a  thousand  instances  of  want  of  lov- 
ingness,  of  rebellion  against  the  destiny  assigned  to  her. 

As  Buck  closed  the  door,  she  flung  herself  upon  a  sofa.  She 
tried  to  weep,  but  she  could  not.  She  buried  her  convulsed 
features  in  the?  cushions  and  stamped  her  feet  with  rage,  and 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  165 

wrung  her  hands.  By  degrees,  all  this  subsided  into  a  sort  of 
stupor. 

At  last  something  roused  her.  She  looked  up ;  it  was  snow- 
ing. The  branches  of  the  trees  were  becoming  frosted ;  the 
grass  was  just  covered  with  a  transparent  lace-work  of  snow. 
She  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Suddenly,  the 
words  of  the  prodigal  occurred  to  her.  She  repeated  them 
several  times,  thinking  of  Captain  Warner.  She  felt  she  should 
be  safe  and  happy  under  his  care.  She  dreaded  her  own  weak- 
ness. She  was  wounded  by  her  inferiors ;  above  all,  she  dreaded 
lest  something  he  might  hear  from  others  might  infuse  a  vile 
suspicion  into  his  mind  ;  and  she  was  resolute  to  tear  from  him 
the  secret  of  Felix  Guiscard's  death,  however  unwilling  he  might 
prove  to  part  with  it. 

She  was  true  to  him  ;  she  was  still  true.  And  oh  !  how  few 
supports  were  given  to  her  faithfulness  of  heart  amidst  the 
trials  of  that  hour.  Why  did  he  leave  her  so  exposed  ?  Why 
did  he  leave  her  doubtful  about  Felix  ?  A  little  frankness,  a 
little  love  would  yet  have  saved  her.  She  was  resolved  to  arise 
and  go  to  his  protection. 

****** 

The  snow  fell  only  in  scattered  flakes,  as  she  went  on  foot 
along  the  avenue.  She  had  wrapped  herself  in  warm  clothing 
and  left  the  house  without  consulting  Mrs.  Warner.  She  was 
going  to  her  husband,  and  to  no  one  else  was  she  responsible. 
Her  intention  was  to  go  down  to  the  village,  and  thence  take 

the  post-chaise  to  C ;  but,  as  she  mounted  the  brow  of  the 

hill,  she  saw  it  coming  homewards,  full  of  drunken  electors,  a 
drunken  post-boy  on  the  box,  and  the  tired  horses  covered  with 
sweat  and  foam.  She  paused  and  looked  around  her.  She 

must  walk  to  C .  She  had  no  thought  of  turning  back, 

and  I  believe  her  excitement  would,  without  fatigue,  have  car- 
ried her  there.  Her  last  memory  of  her  cottage  home  was  as 
it  lay  half  a  quarter  of  a  mile  upon  her  right,  its  gable  ends 
projecting  through  the  shrubbery ;  its  tiled  roofs  white  with 
snow. 

As  she  was  turning  away  to  continue  her  walk  through  the. 
increasing  darkness,  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  wheels  upon 


166  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

the  gravel.     It  was  the  doctor  from  C ,  who  had  driven  in 

through  the  other  entrance.  She  had  not  been  aware  of  his 
arrival,  and  now  stopped  him,  as  he  approached  the  gate,  to 
inquire  for  his  patient.  "  Doing  well,"  was  the  substance  of 
his  answer.  "  A  damp  night,"  he  added,  "  Mrs.  Warner.  The 
fogs  of  your  valley  induce  ague.  Let  me  advise  your  returning 
to  the  house ;  you  may  contract  catarrh." 

"  Are  you  going  to  C ?" 

"  I  shall  be  there  in  fifty  minutes.  Have  you  any  com- 
mands f" 

"  I  believe  I  shall  ask  you  for  a  seat  in  your  gig.  I  want  to 
go  to  the  Committee-rooms,  to  meet  my  husband.  The  village 
chaise  is  engaged,  and  the  night  is  too  riotous  for  me  to  go 
alone." 

"  I  will  make  a  point  of  seeing  Captain  Warner,  and  of  as- 
suring him  the  little  boy  is  out  of  danger." 

Strange,  that  wrapped  up  in  the  details  of  her  own  position, 
that  reason  for  seeking  him  had  not  occurred  to  her.  She 
seized  it  at  once,  however. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  will  drive  over  to  C with  you. 

My  husband  will  not  be  easy  till  he  has  heard  how  it 
occurred." 

Seated  beside  the  doctor,  wrapped  in  her  cloak  and  absorbed 
in  her  own  thoughts,  which,  tending  to  no  conclusion,  served 
only  to  fatigue  her  mind,  she  drove  up  to  the  principal  Inn  in 

C ,  then  occupied  by  the  Blue  Committee.     There  was  a 

good  deal  of  excitement  and  some  crowd  before  the  door.  As 
soon  as  the  doctor  could  force  his  horse  amongst  the  people, 
she  sprang  out,  and,  passing  through  a  mob  of  electors,  entered 
the  Crown  Inn,  and  asked  the  first  waiter  she  met  for  Captain 
Warner. 

"  Captain  Warner,  madam,  is  gone,  I  believe,  to  dine  at  Mr. 
O'Byme's  with  a  large  party." 

"  Gone !"  she  said  aloud.     She  was  smitten  to  the  heart  by 
the  thought  that  at  the  moment  when  she  so  much  needed  his 
support,  he  had  been  attracted  by  her  rival. 
.    "I  will  go  and  make  sure,"  said  the  waiter.     "  What  name 
shall  I  say,  ma'am  ?" 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  167 

She  waited  a  moment,  and  then  Mr.  Rustmere  came  out  of 
a  side  room. 

"  What !  you  here,  Mrs.  Warner  ?" 

"I  want  to  see  my  husband." 

"  He  is  over  at  O'Byrne's.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  You 
can't  get  at  him  to-night.  It  is  a  large  party." 

"  You  can  order  me  a  post-chaise,"  she  replied,  "  for  I  must 
see  him." 

"  There  is  not  a  chaise  to  be  had  this  evening,"  said  the 
waiter.  "  They  are  all  taken  up  by  the  electors." 

"  I  have  my  gig  here,  and  am  going  home,"  said  Mr.  Rust- 
mere.  "  You  must  come  home  with  me.  To-morrow  morning 
I  will  drive  you  over.  You  will  meet  your  husband  at  the 
Chairing.  He  will  sleep  at  O'Byrne's." 

"  I  had  rather  not,"  she  said. 

"  But  there  is  no  alternative,"  said  Mr.  Rustmere.  "  You 
cannot  pass  the  night  alone  in  an  inn  in  town." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

With  cruel  weight  these  trifles  press 
A  temper  sore  with  tenderness, 

When  aches  the  void  within. 

COLCBIDOK. 

As  they  drove,  next  morning,  into  C ,  the  crowd  was  great 

and  vociferous.  At  the  narrow  end  of  the  High  street,  several 
mob  orators,  mounted  upon  chairs,  were  haranguing,  either 
upon  the  election  itself  or  the  escape  from  Elba.  As  the  Rust- 
mere  carriage  came  in  sight  the  livery  was  recognised,  a 
large  party  of  Yellow  boys  raised  three  groans  for  all  aris- 
tocrats, and  a  tumult  rose  accordingly.  Stones  were  thrown; 
coarse  jests  assailed  the  ears  of  Amabel ;  the  coachman,  fear- 
ing for  himself,  his  horses,  and  his  carriage,  lost  all  presence  of 
mind,  and  appeared  anxious  to  turn, off  into  the  yard  of  the 


168  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

^  *    J? 

Yellow  inn — the  Red  Lion.  The  horses  grew  restive.  The 
license  of  an  election  day — that  day  on  which  the  rnob  asserts 
•  and  exercises  its  rights  of  sovereignty, — treats  its  masters  as  its 
servants, — and  lays  bare,  for  the  space  of  a  few  hours,  all 
the  passions,  the  rankling  sense  of  injuries,  the  prejudices  and 
hatreds  that  find  their  vent,  at  other  times,  only  in  low  pot- 
houses— did  not  otfer  any  protection  to  ladies  when  the  party- 
badges  that  they  wore  had  been  disregarded,  and  the  party- 
watchwords  that  they  used  had  no  influence  to  calm  the  popu- 
lar rage.  An  English  rnob  aroused  must,  indeed,  be  terrible  to 
a  woman  and  a  foreigner.  Lady  Harriet,  a  person  of  much 
nerve,  kept  calm  ;  but  Amabel  became  thoroughly  frightened. 
She  lost  her  presence  of  mind ;  she  screamed  and  struggled  to 
undo  the  door  of  the  carriage,  hoping,  probably,  in  the  extremity 
of  her  terror,  to  escape  on  foot,  unnoticed,  through  the  crowd, 
the  more  terrible,  because  brutally  jocular.  She  succeeded,  in 
spite  of  her  companion's  eiforts,  in  making  her  escape,  and 
found  herself  almost  immediately  seized  by  Ferdinand  Guiscard. 
The  Abbe  C —  was  with  him,  and  the  attention  of  the  crowd 
being,  by  her  movement,  directed  towards  them,  they  were 
recognised  at  once  with  a  groan  of  reprobation.  Every  vile 
epithet  which  national  feeling  had,  for  years,  given  to  Bona- 
parte, was  howled  after  them.  Amabel  had  put  herself  in  a 
worse  position  than  if  she  had  kept  her  seat  in  the  Rustmere 
carriage.  Followed,  jostled,  insulted  with  coarse  words,  and 
narrowly  escaping  being  pelted  with  election  missiles,  the  trio 
made  their  way  into  the  Red  Lion.  Amabel  was  shown  into  H 
private  parlor,  whither  the  Colonel  and  the  Abbe  followed  her. 
It  was  long  before  she  could  compose  herself,  or  summon 
courage  to  look  out  upon  the  crowd  that  filled  the  street 
below. 

A  few  doors  above  the  Red  Lion,  and  opposite  to  the  Crown 
Hotel,  where  sat  the  Blue  Committee,  was  the  great  Blue  book- 
seller's and  stationer's.  Here  Lady  Harriet  sat,  the  centre  of  a 
party  of  gentlemen.  It  was  the  head-quarters  of  the  Blues, 
and  a  staging  had  been  erected  for  the  ladies'  accommodation. 
Thither  Miss  O'Byrne  rode  up  on  horseback,  and  Captain  War- 
ner, smiling,  talking,  and  triumphant,  was  at  her  side.  His  wife 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  169 

sat  watching  him.    He  crossed  the  street,  turned  into  the  court- 
yard of  the  Crown,  and  went  into  the  Committee-room. 

A  few  minutes  after,  Mr.  Rustmere,  sent  by  Lady  Harriet, 
came  across  the  street,  and  entered  the  Red  Lion.  The  crowd 
set  up  an  ironical  huzza  when  it  saw  the  Blue  leader  passing 
over  to  the  head-quarters  of  the  Yellow  party.  He  came  up- 
stairs to  Amabel ;  gravely,  but  politely,  offered  her  his  arm, 
and  told  her  she  had  better  join  Lady  Harriet  and  her  own 
party.  He  bowed  to  Col.  Guiscard,  and  declined  his  escort  for 
Mrs.  Warner,  stating  that  he  was  well  known  by  the  crowd, 
and  perfectly  capable  of  protecting  her.  As  she  passed  across 
the  street,  she  saw  a  servant-boy  of  Mrs.  Warner's  amongst  the 
ostlers  at  the  inn-door,  and  from  him  she  learned  the  child 
was  better ;  that  Mrs.  Warner  continued  at  the  cottage,  and 
had,  even  in  a  few  hours,  made  alterations  in  the  establishment 
which  seemed  to  indicate  an  intention  to  take  everything  into 
her  own  hands. 

When  Mr.  Rustmere  delivered  her  over  to  his  wife,  Lady 
Harriet  seemed  provoked  at  her  imprudence ;  and  the  county 
ladies,  gay,  triumphant,  and  radiant  in  Blue  ribbons,  seemed  to 
shrink  from  the  bewildered,  frightened  foreigner,  who  wore  no 
party  badge. 

Preparations  for  the  Chairing  went  on.  A  passage  was 
made  through  the  crowd  for  the  procession ;  blue  flags  of 
every  shade  were  gaily  waving ;  the  city  bells  were  ringing ; 
bands  of  music  were  tuning.  The  Blue  platform  was  brought 
forth,  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  dozen  stalwart  husband- 
men, covered  with  Blue  favors,  on  Avhich,  standing  before  an  arm- 
chair,— blue  damask  decked  with  silver, — the  new  member,  in 
full  yeomanry  uniform,  was  to  be  paraded  bowing  through  the 
town,  surrounded  by  his  committee  on  horseback,  and  his  prin- 
cipal supporters.  Just  as  the  procession  was  forming,  Captain 
Warner  came  out  of  the  inn,  entered  the  stationer's  house,  and 
came  out  upon  the  staging.  His  wife  rose,  seized  both  his 
hands,  and  drew  him  into  an  inner  chamber. 

"  Oh  !  Leonard,  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you,"  she  began. 

"  Well,  my  love,  tell  me  another  time,"  he  answered.  "  Is 
not  this  great  news  ?" 

8 


1<0  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  has  happened,"  she  continued. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  he  replied.     "  Is  anything  amiss  ? 

My  mother "he  looked  round  him  with  alarm.  "  Why 

is  she  not  with  you  ?" 

"  She  is  well  enough.  But  little  Johnny  has  been  nearly 
drowned,  and  it  was  my  fault.  He  is  better  now." 

"  Good  heavens !  How  did  it  occur  ?"  cried  the  captain, 
beginning  to  work  himself  into  a  fuss,  in  the  midst  of  which,  as 
his  wife  was  soothing  him  and  explaining  the  accident,  he  was 
summoned  to  the  Committee-room. 

"  Thank  God,"  he  cried,  "  it  was  no  worse.  Kiss  the  child- 
ren for  me.  Belle,  my  little  wife,  I  am  here  to  say  good-bye. 
I'll  write  to  you  from  London.  This  landing  of  Boney's  has 
given  me  a  ship.  I  have  a  letter  from  the  Admiralty  in  my 
pocket,  ordering  me,  without  delay,  to  Spithead,  to  take  com- 
mand of  the  Magician.  I  shall  be  off  the  moment  that  this 
thing  is  at  an  end.  My  post-chaise  is  getting  ready." 

"  Oh  !  Leonard,  do  not  leave  me  !"     She  clung  to  him. 

"  Nonsense  !  Nonsense !"  he  replied,  half-laughing  at  her 
tears.  "  Cheer  up,  little  woman,  I  shall  not  be  long  away. 
You  shall  hear  from  me.  I  may  stop  a  day  or  so  in  town." 

"  Captain  Warner,  you  are  wanted,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said 
a  waiter. 

"  There,  there,  my  time  is  up." 

"  Oh  !  Leonard,  what  is  to  become  of  me  ?" 

"  I  must  go,  my  little  woman,"  cried  the  captain.  "  If  I  ain 
delayed  at  Portsmouth,  I  will  write  for  you  to  join  me ;  but  I 
hope  to  be  off  at  once  for  the  Mediterranean.  I  leave  a  credit 
for  you  at  the  bank.  Good  bye !  Good  bye  !"  he  repeated, 
each  time  with  a  kiss.  "  Give  my  duty  to  my  mother.  Kiss 
the  children.  Good  bye !  Good  bye  !" 

She  saw  him  mount  his  horse  and  bow  to  Miss  O'Byrne.  He 
looked  up  with  a  smile  to  catch  her  eye.  He  was  full  of  excite- 
ment ; — glad  to  be  employed. 

He  was  gone !  And  Amabel  was  left ; — left  a  stranger  amongst 
strangers.  The  seafarer,  wrecked  and  destitute  upon  a  hostile 
shore !  She  could  not  rejoin  the  gay  party  on  the  staging. 
Lady  Harriet  came  into  the  room  and  tried  to  comfort  her. 


FAMILY     HISTORY.  171 


She  urged  her  to  forget  her  grief,  anfci*™  ™^  them  to 
Foxley.     This  invitation  was  very  acceptable  ®       "" 


thought,  a  hope,  a  plan  of  escape  possessed  her.  She 
already  resolved  not  to  go  back  to  Mrs.  Warner.  Her  hus- 
band being  ordered  to  the  Mediterranean,  there  was  a  chance 
of  return  to  her  own  happy  Maltese  home.  She  would  write 
for  his  permission  to  live,  during  his  term  of  service,  with  Dr. 
Glascock  or  her  uncle.  From  the  former  she  had,  a  few  days 
before,  received  a  letter,  the  first  he  had  written  to  her  since 
her  marriage.  She  had  not  shown  it  to  her  husband,  partly 
because  he  had  always  been  pre-occupied  with  the  business  of 
the  election,  partly  because  it  contained  several  remarks  very 
far  from  complimentary,  upon  her  marriage. 

"  Should  you  ever  be  in  want  of  protection  or  a  home,"  it 
said,  "remember  Malta.  The  time  may  come  when,  in  the 
general  wreck,  you  sink  your  pride." 

She  wrote  old  Mrs.  Warner  a  civil  note  with  a  bad  pen, 
desiring  her  to  forward  her  clothes  and  maid  to  Foxley.  That 
done,  she  resigned  herself  to  Lady  Harriet.  But,  at  the  time, 
she  was  not  aware  that  the  invitation  had  been  extended  to 
Col.  Ferdinand  and  the  Abbe,  as,  after  the  events  of  the  morn- 
ing, their  stay  at  C  --  ,  amidst  all  the  excitement  of  a  coming 
war  and  the  license  of  an  election,  was  not  considered  likely  to 
be  safe  or  very  agreeable. 

So  Amabel  returned  to  Foxley.  As  soon  as  she  could  escape 
to  her  own  chamber,  she  threw  off  her  cloak  and  bonnet,  and 
seating  herself  at  a  table,  began  a  letter  to  her  husband.  The 
tender  tears  had  dried  that  she  had  shed  for  his  departure. 
During  her  drive  to  Foxley,  she  had  been  meditating  upon  her 
position  and  her  wrongs.  She  says  herself  of  this  letter,  that 
it  was  "  stiff,  cold,  and  harsh.  I  tried  to  strip  my  remonstrance 
of  all  passion.  I  succeeded  in  making  it  bare  of  feeling  too." 

She  told  her  husband  that  she  would  not,  during  his  absence, 
submit  to  Mrs.  Warner  ;  that  every  house  must  have  its  own 
sole  head,  and  that  she  was  a  stranger  in  her  own  establish- 
ment. That  her  married  life  had  been  anything  but  a  happy 
one  ;  that  she  pined  for  her  home  in  Malta  ;  that  her  uncle  or 
Dr.  Glascock  would  still  receive  her.  She  told  him,  too,  that 


172  AMABEL     A   FAMILY 


his  conduct  had  bee^^r  from  frank  with  reference  to  the  death 
and  dis^p^a'hce  of  Captain  Guiscard  ;  and  desired  him,  rather 
fefSn  conjured  him,  ere  the  moment  when  his  explanation 
would  satisfy  her  doubts  had  passed  away,  to  tell  her  all.  She 
even  hinted  at  his  preference  for  Miss  O'Byrne,  adding  that  she 
knew  his  choice  of  herself  had  not  been  wisely  made,  and  that 
he,  as  well  as  herself,  was  sensible  that,  for  the  good  of  both,  it 
had  been  best  that  they  had  never  been  united. 

This  letter  she  put  into  the  post  that  night,  and  directed  it 
to  his  London  lodging.  This  done,  she  went  down  stairs,  and 
found  there  Col.  Guiscard  and  the  Abbe. 

The  colonel,  that  evening,  paid  her  much  attention  ;  and, 
softened  towards  him  by  his  bravery,  and  emboldened  by  a 
sense  of  comparative  independence,  she  allowed  him  to  approach 
her.  He  was  calm,  courteous,  polished,  and  respectful.  He 
avoided  all  exciting  topics.  She  talked  to  him  of  Brittany, 
and  there  was  something  in  the  tones  of  his  voice  that  reminded 
her  of  his  brother.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  felt  the 
relationship. 

The  next  day  passed.  It  was  Thursday.  A  great  fete  was  to 
be  given  by  the  Rustmeres  the  next  evening,  and  Amabel 
assisted  Lady  Harriet  in  making  preparations. 

On  the  morrow,  she  watched  with  eagerness  the  post-bag, 
which,  at  breakfast,  was  handed  to  Mr.  Rustmere.  There  was 
no  letter  for  her,  and  her  heart  sank  within  her.  The  making 
of  jellies,  the  preparation  of  lemonade  and  sugar-baskets  went 
on  ;  for,  in  those  days,  such  fanciful  cookery  was  done  at  home 
in  country  places.  It  was  not  yet  the  era  of  Strasburg  pies, 
habitual  champagne,  or  the  discovery  of  Lake  Wenham. 

Amabel  was  skinning  almonds  when  she  received  a  summons 
to  the  drawing  room.  A  drawing-room,  stripped  bare  of  fur- 
niture and  carpets,  the  doorways  muslined,  and  its  nakedness 
masked  only,  like  that  of  our  first  parents,  with  green  leaves, 
is  a  solemn  and  a  cheerless  sight  on  the  morning  of  a  festivity  ; 
nor  was  it  made  less  awful  to  poor  Amabel  by  the  appearance 
of  Mrs.  "\Varner.  Dressed  in  her  black  pelisse,  and  frowning 
under  her  black  bonnet,  she  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  bare 
floor  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  173 

"  Pray,  sit  down,  Mrs.  Warner,"  said  her  daughter-in-law, 
proceeding  to  drag  forward  the  hard  end  of  a  rout  bench. 

"  I  shall  not  sit  down  in  this  house,  Mrs.  Leonard,"  was  the 
answer. 

Each  party  stood  a  moment  waiting  the  commencement  of 
the  other,  when  suddenly  Mrs.  Warner  opened  upon  her  daugh- 
ter-in-law a  broadside  of  the  bitterest  reproaches.  Amabel  was 
struck  with  astonishment  by  hearing  how  circumstantially  every 
one  of  her  acts  and  words  had  been  reported,  and  how  cruel 
had  been  the  construction  put  upon  them  by  her  mother-in-law. 
At  first  she  was  made  angry  ;  then  the  terrible  distress  of  the 
old  lady  at  the  scandal  brought  upon  her  house  moved  her. 
With  tears,  and  prayers,  and  asseverations  of  innocence,  she 
tried  to  make  an  impression  on  her.  But  the  respectability  of 
Mrs.  Warner  was  inflexible.  She  seemed  to  think  the  occasion 
for  talk  given  to  the  neighborhood  a  sin  unpardonable.  Ajpa- 
bel  found  that  the  only  basis  for  anything  like  a  reconciliation 
would  be  her  surrender  at  discretion ;  the  relinquishment  of 
her  separate  establishment ;  her  residence  henceforth  under  the 
old  lady's  roof,  and  complete  subjection  to  her  will  in  all  things ; 
her  instant  removal  from  Foxley  ;  her  renunciation  of  all  society 
during  her  husband's  absence,  and  of  all  wish  for  change,  of  all 
predilection  for  anything  French,  either  in  taste  or  manners. 

These  conditions  were  based  upon  a  sentence  she  had  received 
that  morning  in  a  letter  from  her  son,  which  she  showed  to 
Amabel. 


"  I  am  quite  unconscious  of  ever  having  given  her  cause  of  complaint 
against  me.  The  tone  in  which  she  writes  is  most  extraordinary. 
About  that  early  lover  of  hers,  I  have  told  her  all  I  know,  though  she 
prefers  not  to  believe  me.  I  shall  answer  her  from.  Portsmouth;  but, 
meanwhile,  be  pleased  to  tell  her  that  I  entirely  disapprove  of  her 
joining  me  at  Malta.  I  think,  with  you,  she  has  had  enough  of  foreign 
association,  and  should  wish  her  to  give  up  our  own  residence  at  the 
cottage,  and  remain  with  you  while  I  am  away.  My  outfit  and  my 
table  are  expensive,  and,  during  my  absence,  by  giving  up  our  separate 
establishment,  we  may  save  a  little  money." 

These  words  hurt  Amabel  more  than  all  that  had  come  be- 


174  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   BISTORT. 

fore.  It  was  too  much  that  her  letter  should  be  treated  cava- 
lierly by  her  husband, — its  answer  so  carelessly  postponed, — 
that  she  should  be  considered  as  a  whimsical  young  girl,  whose 
fancies  must  be  overruled  for  her  own  good, — her  hopes  all 
dashed, — her  doubts  not  even  answered, — her  indignant  remon- 
strances pooh-poohed, — her  feelings  disregarded !  This  last 
drop  crowned  the  cup  of  all  her  fancied  wrongs  and  sorrows. 
She  made  no  allowance  for  the  haste,  the  worry,  the  character 
of  the  writer. 

She  lost  her  self-command.  She  burst  into  a  torrent  of 
reproach  to  Mrs.  Warner,  who  left  Foxley,  shaking  off  the  dust 
of  her  feet  against  it  and  its  inhabitants,  and  bitterly  distressed, 
it  must  be  added,  at  the  result  of  her  visit  on  the  prospects 
and  happiness  of  her  son.  "  I  have  one  way  left  me  for 
escape,"  were  the  last  words  she  heard  from  Amabel,  as  she 
departed,  "  and,  come  what  may,  I  will  never — never  live  with 
you !" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  lore 
Doth  work  like  madness  on  the  brain. 

COLERIDGE.— CHRISTABEL. 

"  DID  you  ever,"  says  my  father,  in  that  account  of  his  experi- 
ence which  he  has  added  to  our  narrative — "  Did  you  ever  see 
a  strong  man  bowed  to  earth  by  a  tornado  of  misfortune  ? 
Recall  the  agony  you  may  have  witnessed,  as  you  peruse  this 
portion  of  our  story,  or  else  thank  God  you  never  looked  upon 
such  sorrow.  Men  are  sooner  struck  down,  I  think,  than 
women.  One  can  see  at  once  on  them  the  scathing  change 
made  by  calamity ;  women  seem  to  wither  slowly  as  affliction 
becomes  sobered  into  a  settled  sorrow." 

My  father  says  that,  on  the  morning  of  this  Friday,  he  went, 
by  appointment,  to  join  Captain  Warner,  at  the  lodgings  in 
Warwick  street,  which  he  had  always  occupied  when  a  single 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  175 

man  in  town.  My  father  had  received  his  lieutenant's  com- 
mission, and  was  appointed  to  the  Magician.  He  was  to  break- 
fast with  his  captain  and  accompany  him  down  to  Spithead, 
where  the  frigate  was  lying  at  anchor. 

When  he  went  into  the  room,  he  found  his  captain  dressed, 
holding  his  watch  and  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  My  father 
says  his  look  of  agony  was  such  as  is  sometimes  seen  upon  the 
faces  of  the  dead  in  battle. 

"  Eat  your  breakfast,"  he  said,  almost  fiercely,  pointing  to  the 
untouched  food  upon  the  table ;  "  that  is,  if  you  want  any — 
and  come  along." 

"  The  coach  does  not  start  till  ten,  sir,"  said  my  father. 

"  It  does,  sir,"  said  Captain  Warner. 

My  father  sat  down  to  table. 

"  Theodosius,"  said  Captain  Warner,  "  how  far  are  you  dis- 
posed to  serve  me  ?" 

"  In  anything,  sir.  Try  me."  His  mother  was  own  cousin 
to  Captain  Warner. 

"  I  mean,"  said  the  other,  hurriedly,  "  would  you  follow  me, 
were  I  to  desert  the  ship  ?  She  is  to  sail  with  the  first  wind 
that  will  carry  her  down  Channel.  I  must  settle,  before  I  join 
her,  an  account  of  life  and  death.  Will  you  stand  by  me  ?" 

My  father  started  up.  "  Yes,  sir,"  he  cried,  flattered  by  the 
service  required  of  him.  It  was  evident  he  was  asked  to  be  the 
second  of  his  captain. 

"I  ask  you,"  Captain  Warner  went  on,  "because  you  are 
my  kinsman — because  I  should  be  losing  time  were  I  to  attempt 
to  seek  another  friend." 

"  Never  fear,  sir,"  cried  my  father,  "  we'll  catch  up,  sir,  with 
the  Magician." 

"  Do  not  count  on  that,  sir,"  sternly  replied  Captain  Warner. 
"  You  may  be  broke  and  I  be  shot  by  a  court-martial." 

Then  the  two  men  in  silence  left  the  chamber.  A  word 
from  Captain  Warner  settled  their  destination.  My  father 
found  they  were  going  into  the  Eastern  counties.  The  splendid 
coaches  of  that  day,  if  they  suited  with  your  time,  were  surer 
in  their  speed  than  posting.  As  they  stood  waiting  in  the  yard 
of  the  Bull  Inn,  Aldgate,  Captain  Warner,  without  speaking, 


176  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

put  a  letter  into  my  father's  hand.  The  letter  was  one  he  had 
received  that  morning,  sent  up  express  by  Mrs.  Warner,  My 
father  says  it  left  no  doubt  upon  his  mind  of  the  infidelity,  or, 
at  least,  the  culpable  imprudence  of  Mrs.  Leonard  Warner. 
The  facts  old  Mrs.  Warner  knew  are  known  more  fully  to  the 
reader ;  the  deductions  and  exaggerations  she  engrafted  on 
them  he  may  conceive.  The  captain  saw  a  man  he  knew 
mounting  the  box,  and  took  his  place  inside.  He  concealed  his 
face  as  much  as  possible  during  the  whole  journey.  When 

they  got  out  at  C ,  my  father,  for  the  first  time,  obtained  a 

full  view  of  him,  and  found  the  day  had  made  him  look  years 
older.  The  long,  light  hair,  which  generally  was  brushed  back 
stiffly  from  his  brow,  seemed  to  have  grown  suddenly  lank  ; 
already  he  looked  thiu. 

"  Horses !"  he  shouted  to  the  waiter  at  the  Crown  Inn. 
"  Horses  and  a  chaise  to  Foxley." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  captain  ;  but  I  fear  we  can't,"  said  that 
functionary.  "  Everything  we  has  is  took  up  already  as  it  were 
to  Foxley.  They  have  been  undistinguished  in  their  invita- 
tions, sir.  It  is,  sir,  you  know,  sir,  Lady  Harriet  Rustmere's 
great  Blue  Ball." 

"  Who  is  that  ?  Is  that  you,  captain  ?"  said  the  landlord, 
coming  out  of  a  side  room.  "  Glad  to  see  you.  Want  horses 
to  Foxley,  do  you  say  ?  I  think  your  lady  has  engaged  my 
last,"  referring  to  a  long  ledger.  "  Our  very  last  pair,  this  after- 
noon, and  a  chaise  from  the  Red  Lion.  What  was  it,  William  ? 
Something  queer,  I'm  thinking." 

"  Only,  sir,  that  Mrs.  Captain  Warner  wanted  a  chaise  and 
horses  on  to  London,  to  pick  her  up  to-night  at  twelve  o'clock 
at  the  London-road  gate  of  the  Park  at  Foxley.  ^1  sent  her 
word  there  was  nothing  she  could  have  but  an  old  yellow  chariot 
at  the  Red  Lion,  and  our  boy  could  not  go  with  her  no  further 
than  Witham.  I  wanted  to  know  if  the  chariot  would  do,  and 
the  boy  thought  it  might,  as  Mrs.  Warner  tellflfl  him  they 
wouldn't  be  over  two,  and  not  a  party." 

Poor  Amabel !  Her  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  English  post- 
ing had  led  her  to  furnish  this  information  to  her  messenger,  a 
boy  who  rode  that  afternoon  to  C on  a  cook's  errand  for 


AMA.BEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  177 

lemons.  She  thought  of  taking  her  maid  with  her  in  her 
flight,  but  had  not  made  up  her  mind,  nor  had  she  told  her. 

"  Where  is  that  carriage  f '  said  Captain  Warner. 

"  Getting  ready,  sir.     Will  you  have  it  ?" 

My  father  replied  "  Yes ;"  for  Captain  Warner  could  not 
answer. 

Belle,  with  a  fixed  purpose  of  escape  deep  in  her  heart, 
showed  herself  that  night  in  the  Rustmeres'  ball-room.  Her 
wrongs  appeared  to  justify  an  extreme  measure  upon  her  part. 
Her  mind  was  made  up  not  to  live  with  her  mother-in-law,  in 
the  absence  of  her  husband.  During  the  last  three  days  she 
had  been  maturing  a  plan  of  escape,  to  take  effect  provided  she 
received  no  favorable  response  to  the  letter  of  entreaty  she  had 
addressed  to  Captain  Warner.  She  was  resolved  to  go  to 
Malta,  and  place  herself  under  the  protection  of  her  friends. 
She  knew  that  Doctor  Glascock  would  receive  her,  and  she 
thought  she  might  dictate  terms  by  his  advice  which  would 
secure  her  emancipation  from  old  Mrs.  Warner.  But,  having 
assumed  this  position  of  independence,  it  seemed  to  her  but 
right  that  she  should  know  the  ground  on  which  she  stood. 
As  she  could  get  no  explanation  from  her  husband  with  refer- 
ence to  the  death  of  Felix  Guiscard,  she  determined  to  demand 
that  which  Ferdinand  had  promised  her.  She  knew  that  his 
reluctance  to  enlighten  her  had  been  a  feint.  She  knew,  also, 
that,  having  listened  to  what  he  had  to  say,  he  would  conceive 
himself  possessed  of  a  certain  power  over  her ;  and  she  had 
begun  to  fear  him.  It  occurred  to  her  that  by  a  sudden  flight 
from  Foxley  she  might  elude  him,  and,  in  a  moment  of  child- 
ish frenzy,  ordered  a  post-chaise  from  C to  pick  her  up,  at 

midnight,  at  the  eastern  gate  of  Foxley.  She  said  not  a  word 
to  any  person  of  her  purpose,  fearing  to  leave  some  clue  which 
might  put  her  in  his  power.  Her  preparations  had  been  made, 
her  few  ctfcthes  packed,  and  it  only  remained  to  hear  the 
history,  the  message,  the  dying  words  of  Felix.  For  this  she 
now  entered  the  conservatory,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Col. 
Guiscard. 

"  I  am  come  here  to  listen  to  you,"  she  said.  "  You  have  a 

8* 


178  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

message  and  a  narrative  to  give  me.  You  may  not  have  ano- 
ther opportunity.  I  will  receive  them  now." 

*"  Are  you  prepared  ?" 

"  Perfectly." 

She  sat  down  on  a  sofa,  put  there  for  the  guests,  and  he  sat 
down  beside  her.  Whatever  emotions  may  have  agitated  her 
while  he  spoke,  she  made  no  observations.  Many  dancers  dur- 
ing the  next  two  hours  came  into  the  conservatory,  and  heard 
him  earnestly  addressing  her,  and  went  away  to  make  unkind 
remarks  on  the  flirtation  going  on  between  the  French  colonel 
and  Mrs.  Warner. 


COLONEL  GUISCARD'S  NARRATIVE. 

"  When  the  army  of  Dupont  was  surrendered  at 

Baylen,"  continued  the  colonel,  after  relating  how  Felix  had 
been  kidnapped  on  board  the  Dodo,  in  1809,  in  Malta  harbor,* 
"  the  regiments  then  on  their  way  for  its  reinforcement  were, 
by  the  same  engagement,  delivered  over  to  the  Spaniards.  The 
corps  in  which  I  served  was  hurried  on  to  join  the  prisoners 
taken  by  the  Spanish  ships  at  Cadiz,  after  the  defeat  of  Trafal- 
gar. These  wretches  had  been  removed,  before  we  joined  them, 
from  the  horrible  prison-ships  of  Cadiz  to  the  He  de  Leon. 
Thence  we  were  sent,  after  a  few  months,  to  the  desert  Island 
of  Cabrera.  We  left  our  Spanish  prison  under  a  belief  that 
the  Spaniards,  at  last  mindful  of  the  faith  of  treaties,  were 
about  to  permit  us  to  return  to  our  own  land.  At  Palma,  the 
chief  town  of  Majorca,  after  a  suspense  of  forty  days,  we  first 
learned  our  destination. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Cabrera? — of  the  horrors  of  Cabrera 
— where  Spanish  cruelty  to  us,  betrayed  yet  never  vanquished, 
gained  us,  at  least,  compassion  from  every  Englishman,  save 
one,  who  visited  our  charnel-house  ?  Cabrera !  Where  the 
most  tried  courage  sank  beneath  the  hopeless  horrors  of  our 

•  It  wa»  natural  he  should  believe,  and  that  hii  brother  should  believe  this  outrage 
the  work  of  Captain  Warner.  As  all  that  passed  on  that  occasion  has  been  circum- 
stantially related  in  the  seventh  chapter  of  the  First  Part  of  this  volume,  wisdom  will 
justify  me  in  not  here  rap^stin?  it. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  BISTORT.  179 

situation  ;  for  the  soldier  who  in  the  hour  of  excitement  braves 
even  reverses,  sinks  when  starvation  and  disease  become  his 
only  enemies,  and  his  faculties  have  no  other  employment  than 
daily  warding  off  the  slow  approaches  of  these  stealthy  terrors. 

"  We  came  to  Cabrera  six  thousand  men.  Scarcely  a  third 
of  our  number,  after  a  residence  of  three  years  upon  the  island, 
left  its  arid  shores.  Upon  a  pile  of  barren  mountain  ridges, — 
of  steep  rocks, — six  thousand  men  were  landed,  almost  without 
clothes.  Soon  many  of  our  party  were  entirely  denuded.  No 
habitations  were  to  be  found,  save  the  ruined  walls  of  an  old 
Moorish  castle,  nor  had  we  the  means  of  building  more  than 
wretched  huts  of  branches,  brought,  with  immense  labor,  from 
a  distant  corner  of  the  island,  where,  in  the  clefts  of  the  most 
rugged  rocks,  grew  a  few  stunted  trees.  We  had  but  a  bare 
sufficiency  of  water  to  sustain  life,  and  even  of  this  there  was 
only  a  precarious  supply.  Our  provisions  were  sent  every  four 
days  from  Majorca,  but  were  sometimes  delayed  by  weather  or 
by  wilful  malice,  when  hundreds  died  of  famine. 

"  What  think  you  of  the  day's  nourishment  which  Spanish 
cruelty  doled  out  to  us — six  ounces  of  bread  and  a  handful  of 
dried  beans  ?  Remember,  too,  that  we  were  nearly  destitute 
of  clothing ;  that  previous  suffering  had  shaken  the  most  vigor- 
ous ;  and,  at  a  time  when  moral  strength  alone  could  supply 
the  decay  of  physical  powers,  our  wretched  masses  lost  the  last 
stimulant  of  courage,  the  hope  of  an  ultimate  return  to  their 
own  land. 

"  Our  troops,  with  incredible  labor — for  we  were  deprived  of 
tools — built  huts  of  boughs,  and  founded  a  sort  of  colony,  not 
only  near  the  landing-place,  but  on  the  southern  shore  of  the 
island.  The  officers  at  first  took  up  their  residence  at  the 
castle. 

"The  privations  we  had  suffered,  our  present  misery,  the 
fearful  power  of  the  sun  by  day,  the  sudden  chills  of  night, 
and,  worst  of  all,  our  total  ignorance  of  the  probable  duration 
of  our  sufferings,  broke  up  the  most  robust  constitutions,  and 
gave  rise  to  a  thousand  shapes  of  disease.  Ophthalmia,  dysen- 
tery, scurvy,  quartan  fever,  ravaged  our  ranks,  yet  might  have 
been  averted  had  we  had  it  in  our  power  to  procure  a  little 


180  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

wine  or  fresh  vegetables.  Some  were  carried  off  in  a  few  hours, 
and  their  companions  envied  them.  Some  lingered  out  their 
term  in  silent  suffering,  and  when  strength  was  entirely  expended, 
sank  down  and  rose  no  more.  Dead  bodies  were  to  be  found 
everywhere.  They  were  picked  up  in  solitary  places,  like  worn 
out  carrion  driven  apart  to  die.  At  length,  upon  the  shores  of 
the  bay  to  the  south-west,  beside  the  only  accessible  spring  of 
fresh  water  in  the  island,  we  obtained  leave  to  erect  a  few  frail 
tents,  and  paid  them  honor  by  the  name  of  hospital. 

"  I  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  miserable  wretches  received 
there.  They  carried  me  to  one  of  the  tents  that  stood  highest 
on  the  hillside.  Once,  when  my  senses  were  troubled  by  deli- 
rium, it  seemed  to  me  I  heard  a  familiar  voice — a  voice  of  home. 
The  delirium  lasted  but  a  moment.  They  were  carrying  a  pri- 
soner to  a  neighboring  tent  already  crowded  with  the  dying,  a 
prisoner  who  had  been  brought  in  the  bread  boat  from  Palma. 

"  I  might  have  been  three  days  in  the  hospital,  when  one 
night  a  fearful  storm  broke  over  the  island.  Torrents  descend- 
ed the  steep  sides  of  the  surrounding  mountains,  the  waters  in 
their  course  bearing  down  enormous  stones.  They  came  down 
like  a  deluge.  The  floods  went  on  increasing,  and  the  waters 
every  moment  accelerated  their  course.  We  heard  their  noise 
as  we  lay  powerless  extended  on  our  straw.  The  roar  of  the 
waterfall  canie  nearer  and  nearer,  as  the  floods  bore  down  before 
them  all  that  opposed  their  course.  Loud  as  the  wind  howled, 
louder  was  the  thunder.  Above  it  rose  now  and  then  a  pierc- 
ing shriek  as  of  death  agony. 

"  We  lay  and  listened.  It  seemed  as  though  the  waves 
of  the  ocean  were  rising  in  fury,  threatening  to  submerge  the 
island.  Thus  passed  the  night,  and  with  the  dawn  of  morning 
came  a  momentary  calm.  One  shriek  borne  past  me  by  the 
tempest,  had  awakened  in  my  mind  the  remembrance  of  the 
passing  delirium  of  the  day  before.  Full  of  vague  apprehen- 
sions, and  strengthened  by  the  excitement  of  my  fears,  I 
managed  to  drag  myself  upon  ray  hands  to  the  tent  door. 

"  It  stood  alone ! — A  saving  rock  had  broken  the  force  of  the 
torrent  that  had  descended  from  the  mountains.  Everything 
else  had  been  borne  away  by  the  fury  of  the  waters.  Tents 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  181 

and  straw,  the  dying  and  tbe  sick,  had  all  been  swept  away. 
Many  lay  dead  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  down  which  they  had 
been  rolled,  like  stones,  by  the  rush  of  waters.  Many  lay  with 
their  limbs  broken,  their  bodies  covered  with  nrud  and  sand. 

"  Over  one  body,  apparently  lifeless,  and  half  buried  in  the 
waters  of  the  now  rising  tide,  a  little  dog — I  had  not  known 
there  was  a  domesticated  creature  on  the  island,  save  the  one  ass 
of  our  poor  soldiers — a  little  white  dog  kept  his  watch,  and  had 
succeeded  in  dragging  the  face  he  licked  tenderly  out  of  the 
water.  His  mournful  bark  called  attention  to  the  spot.  Some 
of  the  soldiers  hastened  down,  and  raised  the  body.  There 
was  life  remaining,  for  we  heard  a  groan. 

'*  They  lifted  it,  and  bore  it  up  the  hill,  the  dog  following. 
An  instinct  prompted  me  to  drag  myself  forward.  I  recog- 
nised the  features.  It  was  Felix,  my  younger  brother,  to 
whom  I  had  held  a  father's  place,  whose  welfare  had  ever  been 
dearer  to  me  than  my  own. 

"  His  lower  limbs  had  been  paralysed  (we  all  suffered  from 
paralysis),  the  wound  in  his  breast  had  opened,  nothing  of  life 
seemed  to  be  retained  "^ve  his  powers  of  acute  suffering.  He 
knew  me  at  once.  Brotherly  anxiety  restored  my  strength. 
The  surgeon  came ;  we  bent  over  this  body  of  living  death, 
every  care  we  could  bestow  was  lavished  on  him.  He  was 
laid  upon  my  straw,  and  I  became  his  nurse,  but  in  the  whole 
island  there  was  not  found  one  linen  rag  with  which  to  bind 
his  wounds.  The  only  medicines^  possessed  by  our  surgeons, 
and  administered  to  all  the  sick,  were  quinine  and  sulphuric 
acid. 

"  I  watched  him  day  and  night.  He  was  my  only  brother 
— the  child  confided  to  my  care — my  only  domestic  affection. 
Your  name,  even  in  his  agony,  hung  on  his  lips.  Long  before 
he  could  coherently  relate  his  story,  I  knew  the  character  and 
person  of  the  woman  he  adored.  At  last  summoning  all  his 
strength,  he  told  me  of  the  loss  of  his  ship,  of  his  sickness  at 
Malta,  of  your  tenderness,  and  of  his  love ;  of  the  proposed 
exchange  of  prisoners,  of  his  abduction  in  the  night-time  by 
his  rival.  How  he  was  carried,  bound  and  gagged,  on  board 
Captain  Warner's  ship,  which  had  already  put  to  sea.  How 


182  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

during  the  night  a  Maltese  cattle-boat  came  alongside,  and  he 
was  transferred  into  her.  How,  after  his  robbery  and  narrow 
escape  from  murder,  the  boat  shaped  its  course  for  the  coast  of 
Africa.  On  the  way,  falling  in  with  a  Spanish  vessel  he  was 
put  on  board  of  her  and  carried  to  Majorca,  where  exposure, 
distress  of  mind,  recent  illness,  and  the  acute  suffering  of  his 
bonds,  which  were  never  relaxed  by  the  wretches  to  whom  the 
malice  of  his  English  enemy  confided  him,  brought  on  paraly- 
sis. At  Palma,  in  this  condition,  he  was  shipped  on  board 
our  bread-boat,  and  thrown  upon  our  rock  to  die. 

"  A  brother's  hand  was  there  to  soothe  his  sufferings,  or  at 
least  to  endeavor  to  mitigate  them.  I  might  have  saved  him, 
but  for  the  relentless  cruelty  of  his  enemy. 

"  Your  little  dog  was  his  sole  treasure  ;  he  had  saved  its  life 
through  a  thousand  dangers,  yet  our  starving  comrades  looked 
at  it  with  wolfish  eyes.  Misfortune  had  isolated  the  prisoners, 
nothing  united  the  sympathies  of  our  miserable  society  but  the 
arrival  of  our  provision  boat-  One  day  it  did  not  come.  I 
can  see  our  famished  soldiers  watching  for  it  from  the  moun- 
tain top  from  the  break  of  dawn.  In  fine  weather  we  could 
see  the  entrance  of  the  port  of  Palma,  but  not  a  sail  clouded 
the  horizon.  Neither  that  day  nor  the  next. 

"  One  hundred  and  fifty  of  our  number  died  in  those  two 
days  of  hunger. 

"  Some  died  in  the  ravings  of  delirium,  some  shrank  from 
us  into  corners  and  into  caves  to  die.  The  rats  and  mice  upon 
the  island  had  been  eaten,  recourse  was  had  to  grass  and 
roots  ;  amongst  the  latter  we  fancied  we  had  discovered  a 
species  of  potato,  and  it  was  greedily  devoured  before,  by  its 
effects,  it  was  discovered  to  be  poison. 

"On  the  third  day  it  was  proposed  to  kill  the  ass,  the 
soldiers'  only  object  of  affection,  the  original  inhabitant  of 
the  island.  Our  dying  soldiers  would  not  have  permitted  the 
sacrifice  had  it  not  been  enforced  by  all  the  authority  of  their 
officers. 

"  Except  myself.  1  was  away.  I  had  scaled  the  tops  of  the 
highest  hills.  I  had  gone  where  only  the  brooding  sea  bird 
ventured,  or  the  shy  goat  of  Cabrera  could  climb. 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY  HISTORY.  183 

"  Some  might  say  the  deed  was  selfish,  but  my  brother's 
life  seemed  to  hang  upon  that  of  your  little  Barba ;  the 
soldiers  had  resolved  on  sacrificing  the  animal,  and  at  Felix's 
earnest  request  I  took  him  away  in  the  night.  I  was  pursued 
— pursued  with  all  the  energy  of  famine.  But,  one  by  one, 
my  pursuers  dropped  off.  Two  fell  through  weakness,  and 
perished  in  the  mountains.  At  last,  but  two  were  left,  swift- 
footed,  and  as  sure  as  swift,  for  they  were  Corsicans.  I  hid 
myself  in  a  cleft  of  the  steep  rugged  limestone.  Under  the 
shadow  of  fantastic  rocks  I  continued  to  creep  upward.  But 
this  course  was  slow  ;  they  gained  on  me,  for  I  was  weak,  and 
were  at  last  so  close  that  the  noise  of  their  panting  reached 
my  ear.  Suddenly,  when  but  a  few  feet  from  where  I  lay 
concealed,  they  seemed  at  fault.  One  pointed  upwards  to  a 
lichen-covered  rock,  and  seemed  to  find  in  it  a  resemblance  to 
some  part  of  my  apparel.  The  other  objected  that  I  was 
probably  more  near.  They  parted.  And  when  but  a  hundred 
yards  asunder,  the  one  who  thought  me  near  caught  the 
gleam  of  the  white  coat  of  your  little  Barba.  With  a  quick 
cry,  to  call  his  comrade  back,  he  sprang  towards  me.  I  had  a 
pistol  in  my  hand.  My  pistols  were  almost  the  only  fire-arrns 
we  had  smuggled  on  the  island.  I  fired.  The  ball  took 
effect ;  he  gave  a  sudden  bound,  and  fell  backward  over  the 
escarpment  of  a  rock  behind  him.  The  other  heard  the  shot, 
and  saw  the  fall,  without  catching  sight  of  me.  As  I 
expected,  he  gave  up  the  pursuit  and  hastened  towards  the 
body  of  his  comrade.  I  pushed  upward,  and  soon  found 
refuge  in  one  of  the  stalactital  caves  not  uncommonly  found  in 
the  islands  of  the  Mediterranean.  Here  I  continued  many 
hours  in  concealment  and  in  safety,  when  at  last  from  my 
eyrie,  which  had  an  out-look  northward,  I  caught  sight  of  a 
sail.  It  came  nearer  and  nearer.  It  attracted  every  eye  in  the 
island.  It  was  the  provision  boat  from  Palma.  Our  necessities 
were  so  great  that  ere  we  cursed  man,  we  thanked  God.  It 
had  been  delayed  only  by  the  local  jealousies  and  squabbles  of 
the  Spanish  officers.  I  hurried  to  the  shore  to  be  amongst  the 
first  to  claim  my  portion.  In  general  the  officers  and  non- 
commissioned officers  formed  messes  of  seven,  and  by  this 


184  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

arrangement  the  starving  pittance  was  made  to  go  further 
than  when  each  man  ate  his  portion  by  himself  alone,  the 
less  provident  soldiery  devouring  their  four  days'  rations  as 
soon  as  they  were  put  into  their  hand. 

"  As  the  little  brigantine  approached,  the  excitement  of  the 
haggard  crowd  grew  terrible.  Every  tack  she  made  which 
seemed  to  take  her  off  her  course,  occasioned  the  utmost 
agitation.  The  sick  and  dying  had  been  brought  down  to  the 
sea-shore  by  their  debilitated  comrades,  and  were  encouraged 
to  fix  their  eyes  on  her  approach,  that  they  might  live  till  food 
arrived.  Many  cast  themselves  into  the  sea,  while  she  was 
yet  far  distant,  and  swam  out  towards  her,  hoping  that  some 
fragment  of  food  might  be  thrown  them.  At  length  she  was 
run  up  as  usual  almost  upon  the  shore,  but  instead  of  the 
twenty  men  whom  custom  permitted  to  board  her,  a  mixed 
multitude,  careless  of  life,  was  in  a  moment  on  her  decks, 
upon  her  sides,  and  over  her  bulwarks.  For  the  first  time 
since  our  arrival  in  the  island,  the  authority  of  their  officers 
was  unable  to  restrain  the  famished  crowd,  and  to  obtain 
order  and  regularity  in  the  distribution  of  the  provisions. 
Hunger  even  laid  aside  its  reverence  for  the  bread.  At  other 
times,  the  smallest  fragments  that  had  been  broken  off  in 
landing  were  picked  up  with  respectful  care,  and  placed  upon 
the  loaves  to  which  they  belonged.  On  this  occasion  the  food 
was  torn  in  pieces  with  a  selfish  recklessness  of  waste.  Hap- 
pily they  had  sent  us  a  double  allowance  of  provisions. 

"  Besides  the  cavern,  with  its  running  waters  pursuing  their 
clear  limpid  course  over  bright  golden  sands,  of  which  Don 
Raphael,  Prince  of  the  chevaliers  cTindustrie,  gave  Gil  Bias 
the  description,  there  are,  as  I  have  said,  other  grottos  in 
Cabrera,  and  I  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  light  upon  one 
unknown,  apparently,  to  any  of  our  comrades. 

"Felix,  who  had  no  claims  on  the  camaraderie  of  the 
officers,  who,  officer  himself,  yet  not  of  our  corps,  nor  of  our 
service,  felt  himself  in  an  isolated  position,  listened  eagerly  to 
a  proposition  that  I  made  of  carrying  him  by  night  upon  my 
shoulders  into  the  hills,  to  hide  ourselves  in  this  cavern,  near 
which  there  was  a  small  pure  spring  unknown  to  the  other 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  185 

prisoners,  and  indeed  inaccessible  to  them  for  purposes  of 
supply.  The  affair  of  the  dog  had  not  contributed  to  make  us 
popular,  and  Felix  trembled  for  its  life  should  any  second 
detention  deprive  our  famished  ranks  of  their  supply  of  food. 

__"  For  ten  days  we  continued  to  occupy  our  grotto.  Its 
humidity  was  unfavourable  to  the  health  of  Felix.  There  was 
a  carpet  of  close  turf  near  its  entrance,  on  which  he  used 
to  sit  and  gaze  on  the  fine  sea  view,  only  bounded  by  the 
horizon.  Here  his  talk  was  all  of  you.  Here  it  was  I  learned 
to  know  you — the  Peri  of  his  Paradise ;  his  ministering 
angel.  Half  child,  half  woman,  he  described  you.  Woman 
in  mind,  child  in  your  powers  of  enjoyment.  A  woman  in 
sensibility,  with  a  child's  power  of  trustful  loving ;  with  a 
strange  wise  sincerity  of  thought,  and  simple  truthfulness  of 
action.  A  grace  more  striking  in  your  mind  than  in  your 
person,  though  that  was — oh  !  how  fair  !  He  never  felt  you 
could  misdoubt  him,  and  strong  as  circumstances  might  appear 
against  his  truth,  he  felt  your  love  was  stronger.  Weak  as  he 
was,  his  mind  never  dwelt  upon  •  the  possibility  of  a  final 
separation.  He  would  live  and  enjoy  heaven.  A  heaven  of 
love,  a  heaven  of  happiness,  heaven  with  you.  You  had 
called  him  back  to  life,  and  that  life  was  devoted  to  you.  The 
remembrance  of  distress,  privation,  weakness,  all  would  pass 
away  when  he  again  sat  at  your  feet,  or  held  your  warm  soft 
hand.  He  swore  by  the  name  of  all  he  counted  holy  to  be 
true  to  you.  It  needed  no  oath  from  your  lips  to  make  him 
trust  you.  >. 

"  He  confided  to  me  your  claims  upon  our  patrimony  in  the 
last  conversation  that  we  held.  He  spoke  for  the  first  time  of 
his  death  upon  the  island  as  a  possible  eventuality,  and  gave 
me  a  solemn  message  to  you  should  he  die,  and  I  survive  him. 
What  that  message  was,  I  owe  it  to  the  stern  remembrance 
you  have  shown  of  your  position  as  a  wife,  in  opposition  to 
any  zeal  or  anxiety  you  might  have  shown  for  my  brother's 
justification,  not  to  reveal  unless  you  require  me. 

"  They  may  be  called  his  dying  words.  For,  as  he  uttered 
them,  death  was  approaching  him.  We  were  sitting  on  a 
rocky  point  above  our  grotto,  watching  the  approach  of  a 


186  AMABEL;  A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

vessel  of  war.  As  she  came  near,  she  showed  the  English 
ensign.  Soon  all  was  confusion  and  excitement  in  the  island. 
The  vessel  approached  our  landing-place.  What  news  might 
she  not  have  on  board !  She  let  go  her  anchor  some  two 
hundred  yards  from  the  little  beach,  and  in  a  moment  the  sea 
was  alive  with  our  men  swimming  off  to  her. 

"My  God  !  what  an  impression  their  wasted  appearance 
must  have  made  upon  our  enemies  !  They  were  at  first  disposed 
to  show  great  kindness  to  our  miserable  hordes.  The  captain 
received  some  of  our  officers  in  his  cabin.  The  men  gathered 
round  our  soldiers,  inquiring  by  signs  into  their  wants,  and 
•with  rough  hearty  gestures  expressing  commiseration.  The 
desire  to  relieve  our  sufferings  was  so  great  that  the  captain 
gave  permission  to  his  men  to  subscribe,  if  they  pleased',  three 
days'  rations  for  our  use,  and  made  a  distribution  amongst  the 
naked  of  all  the  spare  slops  in  the  vessel.  I  had  not  been  on 
the  shore  when  the  ship  came  to  an  anchor,  but  now,  seeing 
what  was  going  on,  and  in  the  hope  of  food,  I  descended  from 
the  steep  hills  in  the  centre  of  the  island,  and  made  my  way 
towards  the  little  town  of  huts  which  our  people  had  built 
upon  the  landing-place. 

"  As  I  went  down,  the  thought  presented  itself,  that  I  would 
lay  my  brother's  case  before  this  benevolent  English  officer, 
who,  perhaps,  might  take  him  off  the  island,  and  at  the  worst 
restore  him  to  his  Maltese  prison.  My  brother  had  imagined, 
as  the  brig  approached,  that  she  might  be  the  Sea  Gull,  in 
which  case  her  commander  would  be  probably  that  captain 
whose  fortune  it  had  been,  the  year  before,  to  take  him 
prisoner.  As  I  drew  near  to  the  beach,  however,  I  learned 
that  the  vessel  was  not  the  Sea  Gull,  but  the  Dodo,  com- 
manded by  Captain  Warner. 

"  You  may  censure  me  for  my  weakness,  but  so  terrible 
were  our  necessities,  and,  through  long  suffering,  my  spirit  was 
BO  broken — I  had  begun,  too,  to  draw  such  confidence  from 
the  benevolence  of  this  captain — that  I  resolved  to  make  ray 
appeal  even  to  himself,  against  himself,  surrounded  as  he  was 
by  his  enemies  and  his  officers. 

"  I  made  my  way  through  the  crowd  to  where  he  stood  (for 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT.  187 

he  had  landed),  and  approached  him.  '  Captain,'  I  said,  '  I  am 
here  to  demand  justice ;  justice  against  yourself,  in  the 
presence  of  these  officers ;  justice  on  behalf  of  my  brother, 
Felix  Guiscard.' 

"  The  captain  understood  a  little  French,  though  some  one 
of  the  bystanders  translated  the  words  for  him,  and  some 
conversation  ensued  between  the  French  prisoner  who  had 
acted  as  interpreter,  himself,  and  his  chief  officer.  The  cap- 
tain's face  assumed  a  frown.  '  No,  Monsieur,''  he  said  to  me  in 
bad  French,  "  I  can  do  nothing  for  him.  Votre  frere  a 
casse  sa  parole  ;'  turning  his  back  on  me,  and  proceeding  to 
pay  attention  to  some  complaints  made  by  another  officer. 
I  retired.  My  heart  in  silence  devoured  this  cruel  insult. 
This,  then,  was  the  brutal  rival  who  had  kidnapped  my  poor 
brother.  This  the  man  who,  when  the  opportunity  for  gene- 
rosity was  presented,  failed  to  rise  to  the  height  of  a  partial 
reparation.  I  was  hustled  from  his  presence  by  his  myrmi- 
dons. I  walked  apart  in  the  midst  of  a  strange  plenty.  I 
forgot  even  to  snatch  food  for  Felix  in  the  bitterness  of  my 
thoughts, — in  my  burning  desire  to  be  revenged.  There  was 
rejoicing  on  the  island.  Our  soldiers,  recovering  their  gaiety, 
endeavored  to  do  its  honors  to  their  English  visitors.  They 
opened  the  strange  theatre,  constructed,  in  a  sort  of  pit,  by 
the  ingenuity  of  some  dozen  of  our  prisoners,  where  comedies 
were  semi-weekly  acted  during  our  long  tragedy. 

"  I  walked  apart ;  and  taking  advantage  of  the  preoccupa- 
tion of  my  comrades,  I  went  up  to  tfie  little  ruined  fort, 
deserted  in  the  excitement,  and  succeeded  in  abstracting  a 
blank  leaf  from  the  Breviary  of  the  Spanish  priest,  who,  under 
the  mask  of  a  religious  zeal,  played  the  spy  upon  the  island. 
On  this  I  wrote  my  defiance  of  the  cruelty  of  the  British  com- 
mander. I  told  him  that,  as  heaven  would  judge  hereafter,  so 
man  should  judge  him  here.  That  before  heaven  and  the 
Holy  Cross  I  vowed  that,  if  ever  I  escaped  from  Cabrera,  I 
would  bring  his  baseness  home  to  him  in  his  own  land.  That 
henceforth  my  life  was  consecrated  to  his  exposure. 

"  By  the  time  I  had  finished  this  document,  the  English 
party  was  reembarked.  They  had  been  on  shore  some  hoursr 


188  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

It  was  already  afternoon.  Two  of  our  officers,  one  a  Colonel, 
one  a  Captain  of  artillery,  were  to  be  taken  off  with  them. 
They  were  Spanish  and  not  English  prisoners.  Humanity  had 
stretched  the  point  of  justice  in  t/ieir  favor,  while  Felix,  law- 
fully an  English  prisoner,  lay  dying  like  a  dog  upon  the  arid 
rocks  of  this  accursed  island. 

"  Our  soldiers,  in  the  hope  of  occasionally  bringing  down  a 
sea-bird,  had  (for  firearms  were  very  few)  constructed  bows 
and  arrows,  barbed  with  pointed  flint.  I  borrowed  one  of 
these,  tied  my  defiance  to  the  arrow,  and  with  both  bow  and 
arrow  in  my  mouth,  plunged  into  the  water. 

"  I  neared  the  vessel.  She  was  getting  under  weigh ;  the 
officer  of  the  deck  warned  off  my  approach  with  meaning 
gestures  and  opprobrious  words.  I  held  on  my  course  till  I 
was  near  enough  for  my  arrow  to  light  on  board  the  vessel. 
I  threw  myself  on  my  back — in  a  moment  I  had  fixed  it  in  the 
bow.  Perhaps  a  devilish  suggestion  crossed  my  mind,  that 
my  revenge  for  all  our  sufferings  would  be  glorious  and  com- 
plete, should  my  arrow  with  its  missive  brain  him  where  he 
stood.  But  the  sea  was  rising.  The  brig  gave  a  lurch  from 
me,  and  he  stood  on  the  poop  unharmed.  At  the  same  instant 
the  sharp  cracking  sound  of  a  pistol  ball,  close  to  my  ear,  came 
past  me.  I  dived,  and  rose  untouched.  No  doubt  he  would 
gladly  have  buried  in  the  deep,  the  man  who  to  his  dying  day 
will  bear  testimony  to  the  infamy,  which  in  the  end  was  yet  to 
win  him  a  fortune  and  a  bride. 

"  When  I  reappeared  upon  the  surface,  I  found  the  Dodo 
at  some  distance  to  leeward,  and  struck  out  towards  the  shore. 
As  I  did  so  the  brig  backed  her  sails  and  rounded  to.  1 
could  not  at  first  perceive  any  object  for  this  manoeuvre,  but  it 
soon  appeared  that  she  was  lying  to,  to  pick  up  one  of  her 
own  boats,  which  I  perceived  creeping  out  of  a  cove  in  another 
part  of  the  island.  I  swam  ashore ;  took  some  food  for  my 
brother ; — I  had  no  need  that  day  of  food — and  reascended 
the  rocks  towards  our  grotto. 

"  As  I  approached,  I  saw  evidences  that  other  persons  had 
been  lately  there.  At  the  foot  of  a  little  rock  in  which  I  had 
,put  rude  steps,  I  picked  up  a  clasp-knife,  with  a  dagger  blade 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  189 

of  curious  construction.  On  examining  it  afterwards  I  found 
the  initial  letters,  F.  G.,  scratched  upon  the  case.  I  had  heard 
Felix  describe  having  had  such  a  knife,  and  J  doubted  not 
that  this  had  been  part  of  the  property  of  which  he  was 
robbed,  on  the  night  when  he  was  put  on  board  the  Maltese 
speronara.  No  arms  were  permitted  ;  and  such  a  knife  as  this 
no  man  possessed  upon  the  island. 

"  I  mounted  to  the  spot  where  Felix  had  been  left.  Oh  . 
God — why  harrow  you  with  this  recital  ?  The  turf  was 
trampled,  and  the  loose  stones  that  lay  about  disturbed.  Felix 
lay  where  I  had  left  him  ;  murdered.  His  dog  stood  howl- 
ing above  him  on  a  rock.  The  body  was  warm,  but  life 
extinct. 

"  No  man  would  listen  to  my  convictions.  As  I  have  said, 
we  were  not  the  favorites  of  our.  comrades.  The  solemn  ear- 
nestness of  the  Breton  character  has  little  in  common  with  the 
French.  We  had  denied  our  dog  to  feed  the  famishing ;  these 
English  had  brought  food,  and  promised  to  return  with  further 
succor.  In  our  situation  the  blessing  the  most  felt,  was  a  suf- 
ficient meal.  They  blessed  the  hand  that  gave  it.  They  paid 
no  heed  to  my  suspicions.  Some  thought  that  Felix  had  com- 
mitted suicide ;  some  hinted  /  had  killed  him.  All  were  so 
inured  to  death  under  circumstances  of  the  utmost  horror,  that 
they  gave  little  attention  to  this  mystery.  I  only  found  myself 
and  my  retreat  more  shunned  than  ever.  The  death  of  the 
Corsican  was  remembered  against  me,  though  as  I  was  an  offi- 
cer, under  the  circumstances  of  insubordination  in  which  that 
death  took  place,  it  could  not  fail  to  have  been  justified  had 
any  investigation  been  made.  Neither  was  the  death  of  Felix 
ever  looked  into.  I  scraped  a  grave  for  him  in  a  cleft  of  the 
rock.  I  promised  (for  Felix  had  a  pious  soul)  many  masses 
for  his  repose.  His  dog  lay  on  his  grave,  and  howled  his 
requiem. 

"  There  was  one  corner  of  the  island,  to  which  fishermen 
from  Majorca  sometimes  resorted  in  a  storm.  It  was  a  shel- 
tered cove,  in  which  they  hoped  to  escape  observation  during 
their  forced  stay.  It  had  occurred,  and  it  occurred  again  dur- 
ing the  time  our  miserable  troops  continued  on  the  island,  that 


AMABBL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

French  ingenuity,  sharpened  by  long  suffering,  proved  too 
much  for  these  Spanish  fishermen. 

"  I  watched^a  party  of  this  kind,  driven  upon  the  island,  con- 
ceal their  boat  one  stormy  evening.  By  stratagems,  with  an 
account  of  which  I  need  not  trouble  you,  I  got  possession  of 
their  fishing  smack,  and  started  alone  without  a  chart,  a  com- 
pass, or  a  sufficient  supply  of  food,  to  make  for  the  coast  of 
Catalonia.  Fortune  favored  my  rash  enterprise.  On  reaching 
the  coast  I  was  afraid  to  land  till  hailed  in  French  by  troops 
of  our  own,  near  Tarragona.  I  served  through  the  Peninsular 
campaign.  I  joined  the  army  of  the  North,  at  its  rendezvous 
at  Strasburg.  I  made  the  campaign  of  Russia ;  was  detained 
in  an  hospital  in  Poland  some  months  after  recrossing  the  fron- 
tier of  that  country ;  joined  the  army  again  before  Dresden  ;  and 
followed  the  fortunes  of  the  Emperor,  during  the  remainder  of 
his  career.  When  the  allied  armies  entered  Paris  I  was  there. 
Not  many  days  after,  I  met  an  English  naval  officer  in  the  gar- 
den of  the  TuilerieS)  in  whom  I  recognised  my  foe.  Seizing 
upon  him  in  the  face  of  all  the  people,  I  mounted  on  a  chair, 
and  began  an  address  to  them.  He  was  pushed  and  execrated  ; 
he  might  have  been  torn  in  pieces,  but  for  a  man  who  made 
his  way  through  the  crowd.  He  was  a  Captain  of  artillery, 
and  declared  himself  the  same  man  Captain  Warner  had 
taken  off  the  island.  Throwing  his  arms  around  my  enemy, 
the  captain  of  artillery  proclaimed  him  his  preserver,  and  was 
going  on  in  his  turn  to  address  the  astonished  crowd  upon  the 
subject  of  his  landing  at  Cabrera,  when  the  arrival  of  a  party 
of  Prussian  soldiers  dispersed  us  all  with  violence.  I  was 
borne  apart  from  Captain  Warner,  and  the  captain  of  artillery 
carried  him  away. 

"Since  then,  I  have  been  in  search  of  you  to  Malta.  I  tra- 
velled home  through  Italy,  where  I  met  with  Lady  Harriet  and 
Mr.  Rustmere.  I  arranged  my  affairs  in  Brittany,  where  my 
presence  was  demanded,  and  have  since  come  to  England. 

"  You  know  the  rest.  I  will  not  expand  this  narrative  by 
invective.  Your  own  heart  be  my  judge." 

"  And  the  last  words  of  Felix  ?  Tell  me  all,"  she  said,  "  you 
will  not  again  have  the  opportunity." 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  191 

"  If  it  be  your  purpose,  as  I  have  reason  to  believe,"  he 
replied,  "  to  leave  this  house  to-night,  to  join  or  to  desert  your 
husband,  you  cannot  think  I  shall  suffer  you  to  depart  without 
protection.  I  shall  watch  over  you  ...  be  near  you  .... 

"And  by  what  right,"  she  asked,  with  flashing  eyes,  "do 
you  presume  to  force  on  me  your  protection  ?" 

"  By  the  right  that  Felix  gave  me  to  adore  you !  His  dying 
words,  his  last  request  were  personal  to  me.  He  had  property 
in  Brittany — " 

"  Proceed." 

"  Which  had  belonged  to  your  forefathers,  and  he  was  very 
anxious  to  bequeath  it  to  you.  But  at  Cabrera  we  had  no 
means  of  drawing  up  a  legal  instrument.  He  was  urgent 
upon  me,  should  I  survive,  to  execute  his  wishes ;  and  charged 
me,  should  I  reach  our  country,  to  seek  you  out,  and  comfort 
you.  I  must  represent  him,  he  added.  He  would  not  wil- 
lingly deprive  me  of  any  part  of  our  father's  inheritance ;  he 
trusted  I  should  gain  your  love.  I  was  to  urge  all  the  influ- 
ence of  his  wishes  on  my  behalf,  and  he  hoped  that  I  in  time 
...  I  say  in  time  .  .  .  should  marry  you.  The  moment  I 
could  leave  the  war,  I  hastened  to  Malta.  I  expected  to  find 
you  there  ....  grieving  still  perhaps  for  our  lost  Felix.  I 
found  you  married  !  .  .  .  gone !  Married  to  the  murderer  of 
Felix !  To  the  man  whose  death  was  my  hope.  Could  I 
throw  the  little  patrimony  of  my  brother  into  the  hands  of  his 
destroyer  ?  Was  Captain  Warner  to  reap  everything  by  the 
annihilation  of  his  victim  ?  Yet  could  I  honorably  dispose  of 
this  estate  without  your  consent  .  .  .  your  cooperation  ?"  On 
a  sudden  his  tone  changed.  "  Amabel !  Bride  of  my 
brother's  soul !"  he  cried  (the  Bretons  are  all  superstitious  and 
imaginative),  "  I  have  not  seen  you  without  loving  you.  I  have 
not  seen  you  without  knowing  you  are  wretched.  The  perfidy 
of  that  one  man  has  blasted  all ;  your  virgin  love,  your 
matron  happiness.  You  can  be  free !  By  the  laws  of  this 
country  one  act,  one  word  ....  one  seeminy  act  dissolves  this 
union.  Will  you  be  mine  ?" 

"  Do  you  understand  me  ?"  he  said,  pausing  as  he  seized  her 
hand  in  passionate  supplication,  for  he  was  frightened  by  the 


192  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

gaze  she  strained  suddenly  into  the  darkness  of  the  night  out- 
side of  the  conservatory.  Her  large  dark  eyes  growing,  like 
those  of  the  startled  antelope,  larger  and  darker  in  her  fear. 

It  came  ! — a  sudden  thrust  against  the  glass,  a  sudden  over- 
throw of  the  geraniums.  The  crash  of  glass,  and  of  the  fulling 
flower-pots, — a  commotion  outside  of  the  conservatory.  He 
caught  the  glare  of  another  pair  of  eyes  on  the  other  side  of 
the  glass,  and  saw  a  white  face  pressed  against  it,  suddenly 
withdrawn.  This  took  but  one  moment,  but  in  it  Amabel  had 
recognised  her  husband's  face  and  had  torn  herself  away.  Col. 
Guiscard  seized  her  by  her  drapery. 

"  Understand  ?  Understand  you  ?"  she  said  chokingly,  "  I 
understand  you  !  loose  me,  sir,  loose  me.  I  disbelieve  your 
slanderous  tale  !  For  ever  out  of  my  sight !" 

She  flew  past  him.  Guests  thronged  from  the  ball-room 
into  the  conservatory,  and  found  him  standing  alone,  amidst 
the  fallen  leaves  and  shattered  earthenware. 

Would  you  like  to  know  how  Amabel  was  dressed  that 
night  ?  I  asked  my  father,  who  following  in  the  wake  of  Cap- 
tain Warner,  was  outside  the  glass  at  that  moment,  and  had  a 
hurried  glance  before  she  fled.  He  did  not  see  her  face  ;  he 
had  a  mere  confused  and  passing  glimpse  of  the  scene.  He 
says,  her  dress,  as  she  sprang  past,  was  something  white  and 
flowing,  whilst  something  blue  and  waving  seemed  to  crown 
her  hair.  It  was  a  delicate  dress  of  embroidered  India  mus- 
lin, and  a  species  of  blue  gauze  nube,  which,  in  the  Maltese  fal- 
detla  fashion,  she  had  wound  round  her  dark  hair.  Years 
afterwards  I  headed  a  party  of  young  cousins,  who  rummaged 
up  this  finery  in  an  old  oak  chest  upstairs.  I  put  on  the 
gored  and  yellowish-white  India  muslin  petticoat,  all  shrunken, 
limp,  and  rough-dried.  Holding  up  the  skirts  well  round  me, 
that  I  might  dance  and  run,  and  with  the  blue  scarf  twisted 
round  my  waist,  I  dashed  into  the  dining-room,  and  spread 
consternation  by  my  appearance  amongst  the  grown-up  party. 
Several  there  could  recognise  the  garments,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  the  awful  night  when  they  were  last  worn  by  their 
mistress,  checked  in  their  very  throats  the  roars  of  laughter 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  193 

that  had  at  the  first  moment  of  our  irruption  greeted  our  mas- 
querade. We  could  not  know  the  cause,  but  we  became 
aware  at  once  that  our  frolic  was  a  failure.  It  seemed  to  me 
when  grandpapa  recovered  voice,  and  we  slunk  away  by  a 
simultaneous  understanding  to  our  quarters,  that  "  dressing 
up,"  our  grand  amusement,  was  to  be  confined  henceforward 
to  the  attics  or  the  nursery. 

"  Grandmamma,  have  I  done  wrong  ?"  I  sobbed  as  she  came 
upstairs,  and  took  off  my  blue  scarf  and  embroidered  dress 
sadly  and  quietly. 

"  No,  my  dear  child,"  she  answered,  "  but  to-morrow,  I  will 
give  you  a  large  chest,  and  fill  it  with  things  fit  for  you ;  after 
which  you  must  never  take  anything  from  these  trunks,  but 
play  with  what  I  put  aside  for  you." 

The  promise  was  kept,  but  amongst  the  treasures  we  aban- 
doned, we  missed  many  perquisites.  The  embroidered  muslin 
petticoat,  and  scarf,  I  have  never  seen  again,  nor  a  large  collec- 
tion of  black  bonnets,  once  the  property  of  the  elder  Mrs. 
Warner. 


CHAPTER   XV.       X 

Barnave  avail  retrouv6  na  vertu  dans  fa  sensibilit^,  mais  la  vertu  qui  vient  tard  e«t 
comme  1'intelligence  qui  vient  apr6s  coup,  elle  ne  sert  qu'  a  nous  faire  mesnrer  la  pro- 
fondeur  de  nos  fautes. 

LAMA.HTINE.    HISTOIRE  DBS  GIROSDINS. 

As  Amabel  rushed  through  the  hall,  she  met  her  husband 
coming  in  through  the  garden  entrance  by  the  conservatory. 
She  recognised  him  and  stopped ;  stretched  out  her  arms  to 
him,  and  was  about  to  throw  herself  upon  his  breast,  exclaim- 
ing, "  Have  you  come  ?  Oh !  Leonard !" 

But  he,  seizing  her  left  arm  by  its  wrist,  hurried  her  up  the 
staircase. 

"  Which  is  your  room  ?"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 

"This.    Oh!  Leonard!" 

9 


194  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

He  drew  her  into  it,  and  pulled  furiously  at  the  bell-cord, 
tearing  it  off,  and  flinging  it  on  the  floor. 

She  stood  bewildered  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  holding  her 
wrist,  which  had  been  hurt  by  his  rough  treatment.  Once 
only  she  made  a  sort  of  movement  towards  him,  clasped  her 
hands  and  began  again,  "  Oh  !  -Leonard !" 

He  silenced  her  by  a  fierce  word.     The  maid  came  up. 

"  You  will  say  downstairs  that  Mrs.  Warner  is  unwell. 
You  will  take  care  that  no  one  comes  up  here  to-night ;  she  is 
too  ill  to  be  disturbed." 

The  woman  looked  at  her  mistress ;  and  went  downstairs 
to  report  in  the  servants'  hall  the  progress  of  the  quarrel. 

"Oh !  Leonard,"  said  his  wife,  trying  again  to  cling  to  him. 
"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  Take  me  away  with  you. 
Save  me.  Forgive  me.  Take  pity  on  me,  Leonard." 

He  thrust  her  off,  and  taking  the  key  from  the  lock,  opened 
the  door. 

"  If  you  have  any  remaining  respect  for  your  reputation," 
he  said,  "  you  will  make  no  noise  this  night,  nor  attempt  to 
release  yourself  from  this  room.  There  will  be  eyes  upon 
you." 

So  saying  he  passed  out  and  locked  the  door.  The  moment 
he  was  gone  her  presence  of  mind  came  back  to  her.  She 
fell  upon  her  knees  before  the  door.  She  implored  him  to 
come  back.  "  One  moment — only  one  moment  .  .  one  little 
moment,  dear,  dear,  dearest  Leonard  !" 

There  was  no  voice,  nor  any  that  answered  her.  Only  con- 
fused sounds  of  gaiety  in  the  ball-room  below. 

Pressing  her  head  against  her  hands,  and  listening  intently, 
she  had  remained  an  hour  probably,  without  the  power  of 
connecting  thought,  when  she  heard  quick,  heavy  steps  com- 
ing up  the  oaken  stairs. 

She  hoped  that  it  was  Leonard  coming  up  to  release  her,  to 
tell  her  that  his  anger  was  all  past,  to  hear  her  heart  poured 
out  in  comforting  confession,  and  to  take  her  to  his  arms ;  and 
she  rose  up  from  where  she  knelt  and  stood  aside,  making  space 
for  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door.  But  the  steps  passed  by 
her  chamber.  She  listened  and  heard  voices.  Men  were  in  the 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  195 

gallery.     One  of  them  wore  spurs.     He  was  an  officer  from  the 

garrison  of  C Castle.     The  other  voice  was  young,  and  rich, 

and  sweet.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  heard  it,  and  the  time 
arrived  when  it  became  to  her  one  of  those  dear  familiar  voices, 
whose  echoes  make  a  plaintive  music  in  the  heart,  when  we 
recall  them  as  we  wander  in  night  watches,  seeking  our  lost, 
best  loved,  most  loving  ones,  amongst  those  shadows  that  peo- 
ple with  pale  forms  the  land  of  dreams.  Their  talk  was  now 
distinct,  yet  low,  of  fighting,  murder,  and  of  sudden  death. 

They  spoke  of  a  meeting  on  the  morrow,  and  she  knew  it 
was  between  Col.  Guiscard  and  her  husband.  They  arranged 
the  preliminaries,  they  spoke  of  it  as  inevitable.  From  things 
they  said,  she  learned  that  the  Colonel  had  met  her  husband 
in  the  hall  as  he  went  down  stairs,  and  offered  him  satisfaction. 
Satisfaction  !  The  word  implied  a  wrong,  as  the  pale  listener, 
with  scalding  tears  of  rage,  and  with  hot  shame  upon  her  cheeks, 
felt,  and  the  seconds  both  acknowledged. 

And  they  discussed  her  too.  The  military  man  said,  "  Hang 
it,  the  sex  is  always  at  the  bottom  of  men's  difficulties  and 
troubles." 

The  other  voice  said  sadly,  "  That  the  life  of  Captain  Warner 
was  of  value  to  his  country,  pity  it  should  thus  be  put  to 
hazard  for  a  good-for-nothing  woman." 

The  military  man  then  asked,  "  if  Captain  Warner  had  been 
an  unkind  or  inattentive  husband  ?" 

And  the  voice  answered,  "  No.  That  he  had  married  his 
wife  for  love,  and  was  devotedly  attached  to  her." 

And  then  they  said  how  much — much  better  it  had  been  had 
he  married  some  young  English  wife,  instead  of  making  an 
eccentric  choice  amongst  foreign  women. 

She  heard  them  going  down  stairs,  and  as  the  sound  of  their 
steps  diminished  as  they  went,  it  seemed  as  if  the  dumb,  deaf 
spirit  that  possessed  her  heart  had  passed  away.  It  passed  as 
she  fell  down  upon  her  knees,  hid  her  fair  young  face  once 
more  in  her  hands,  and,  lifting  up  her  voice  as  she  realized  her 
grief,  from  the  depths  of  her  young  heart  arose  a  low  but  most 
exceeding  bitter  cry. 

Who  can  picture  to  himself  the  feelings  with  which  the 


196  AMABEL;   A   FAMILT   HISTORY. 

aching  heart  of  our  first  mother  heard  the  closing  of  the  gates 
of  her  loved  garden  ?  Yet  Eve  had  still  her  Adam — the  pro- 
mise of  the  Father  was  in  her  heart ;  and,  looking  back  with 
tearful  eyes,  she  beheld  comfort.  One  of  the  brightest  of  the 
heavenly  host  had  passed  the  flaming  portals.  The  angel  of 
hope,  folding  his  shining  wings,  trod  in  her  painful  path,  his 
soft  smile  sank  into  her  heart,  and,  lifting  up  her  voice  with 
that  of  Adam,  they  praised  and  magnified  the  holy  name  of 
God. 

The  hardest  part  of  the  punishment  of  the  mother  of  all 
living  Amabel  Warner  knew  she  had  to  bear.  Her  sins 
would  be  visited  beyond  the  limits  of  her  life  upon  a  future 
generation. 

As  one  after  another  of  her  early  hopes  rushed  past  her,  in 
the  tumult  of  her  thoughts  upon  that  dreadful  night,  floating 
like  drift  wood  to  the  dreary  land  where  memory  flings  the 
wrecks  of  things  we  have  forgotten,  she  knew  for  the  first  time 
in  her  married  life  how  abundant  had  been  the  materials  given 
her  for  happiness,  how  hopeless  was  the  wreck,  and  how  com- 
plete the  ruin. 

And  was  her  fault  to  kill  him  ?  Was  her  disgrace  to  be 
blotted  out  only  in  his  blood  ? 

"  Oh !  Leonard,"  she  cried  in  agony  of  spirit,  "  believe  me, 
I  do  hate  him.  Indeed,  I  hate  him.  I  never  did  anything 
but  hate  him.  L  see  his  art.  I  know  his  purposes.  I  disbe- 
lieve it  all !" 

Love  has  its  highest  exercise  when  it  can  rest  its  faith  in 
doubtful  circumstances  upon  the  character  it  knows,  rather  than 
upon  the  circumstances  themselves. 

Through  her  mind  passed  the  remembrance  of  the  childish 
plans  so  lately  formed.  Had  they  been  carried  out,  ....  but 
they  would  not  have  been  carried  out,  the  threat  of  Col.  Guis- 
card's  protection  on  her  journey,  had  awakened  and  alarmed 
her,  ....  but  had  he  not  discovered  her  design,  had  her  hus- 
band not  come  back,  had  she  not  been  locked  into  her  chamber, 
she  would  have  been  at  that  hour,  as  we  have  said,  travelling 
alone,  clandestinely,  by  night,  to  the  southern  coast,  there  to  take 
passage  in  the  first  ship  that  sailed  for  the  Mediterranean,  where 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  197 

throwing  herself  on  the  protection  of  her  early  friends  in  Malta, 
she  hoped  to  have  dictated  terms  either  of  separation  or  of 
reconciliation  to  her  husband;  exacting  as  the  price  of  her 
return,  the  redress  of  all  her  grievances,  and  entire  emancipa- 
tion from  the  control  of  Mrs.  Warner. 

At  the  height  of  her  folly,  her  feelings  had  been  suddenly 
reversed  by  the  prospect  of  danger  to  her  husband, — by  the 
thought  that  he  once  loved  her,  but  that,  till  too  late,  she 
had  never  set  a  sufficient  value  on  his  love ;  and  now,  instead  of 
her  deserting  him  triumphantly,  as  it  were,  and  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  friends  who  loved  her  best,  dictating  the  terms  of 
her  return,  he  was  about  to  cast  her  off  for  ever,  disgraced, 
degraded,  ruined,  and  undone. 

Some  old  lines  that  had  fallen  in  her  way,  in  the  course  of 
her  last  year's  miscellaneous  reading,  haunted  her  memory. 

Ruin  ensues,  reproach,  and  endless  shame, 
And  one  false  step  for  ever  blasts  her  name, 
In  vain  with  tears  her  loss  she  may  deplore, 
In  vain  look  back  to  what  she  was  before, 
She  sets  like  stars  that  fall  to  rise  no  more. 

Troubles  of  the  imagination  vanished.  She  only  felt  the 
actualities  of  her  position.  She  knew,  and  knew  too  late, 
that  it  had  been  in  her  power  to  be  happy.  Her  heart  was 
turned  against  him  who  had  troubled  the  prospects  of  her  life. 
Had  Felix  then  himself  appeared  before  her,  he  would  have 
found  himself  her  dread,  and  almost  her  aversion.  Her  anxiety 
for  the  fate  of  Capt.  Warner  had  awakened  all  her  interest  in 
his  character,  and  with  it  love. 

Woe-  to  those  who  cannot  see  their  fault  until  the  con- 
sequences of  their  own  sin  leave  them  no  hope  of  escape. 
Memory  and  conscience  are  the  parents  of  remorse.  One  by 
one,  the  remembrance  of  every  scene  of  her  married  life  passed 
through  her  memory,  and  inexorable  conscience  pointed  the 
same  moral  to  each.  "  I  might — I  ought — it  was  in  my  power 
to  have  been  happy." 

No  thoughts  of  an  earlier  period  disturbed  her  recollections 
of  her  later  life.  As  I  have  seen  in  that  strange,  wild,  heath 


198 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


country,  where  she  subsequently  resided,  the  heathery  hills 
melt  into  mist  in  certain  conditions  of  the  atmosphere,  leaving 
the  foreground  of  the  landscape  clear,  bright,  distinct,  and 
more  extended  than  before,  so  the  days  of  her  girlhood 
passed  beyond  her  sight ;  the  links  of  imagination  that  still 
bound  her  to  the  past  snapped  suddenly  asunder  ;  and  thence- 
forth the  tale  of  her  early  love,  her  early  years,  became  as 
indifferent  to  her  as  the  sorrows  or  the  pleasures  of  her  infancy. 
She  felt  that  she  had  long  ceased  to  love  Felix,  and  that  the 
late  emotions  she  had  experienced,  through  the  arts  of  Col. 
Guiscard,  were  mere  galvanic  stirrings  of  the  corpse  of  love. 

One  by  one  her  memory  renewed  the  scenes  of  her  married 
life  ;  again  she  felt  herself  alone,  oppressed  and  desolate  in  her 
mother's  family.  Again  she  felt  the  brightening  influences  of 
Captain  Warner's  presence.  She  saw  his  looks  of  admiration 

in  the  I ball-room,  upon  that  most  exciting  night  when 

he  renewed  his  addresses  to  her.  Again  he  was  driving  her 
out  in  the  fresh  air,  on  the  first  day  of  her  release  after  her 
long  illness  ;  his  genial  temperament  and  careful  love  were 
more  reviving  than  the  breath  of  summer.  She  saw  him, 
when  her  husband,  the  favorite  of  society,  and  felt  that  with 
the  value  that  he  set  on  social  qualifications  she  must  have 
deeply  disappointed  him.  She  had  been  at  no  pains  to  con- 
ceal her  incapacity  for  the  duties  he  most  valued,  and  her  dis- 
taste for  the  neighboring  society.  Her  dislike  to  old  Mrs. 
Warner  had  induced  her  to  withdraw  more  and  more  from  the 
invaded  sphere  of  her  own  duties ;  instead  of  justifying  her 
husband's  choice  amongst  his  associates,  she  had  despised 
their  good  opinion.  Her  heart  now  told  her  how  deeply  she 
must  have  hurt  herself  in  the  estimation  of  a  husband  sus- 
ceptible to  a  fault  to  outward  impressions ;  and  a  spasm  of 
jealousy  passed  through  her  heart  as  she  recalled  his  attentions 
to  Miss  O'Byrne. 

"  How  manly,  how  handsome  he  is  !"  said  her  heart.  "  How 
gay,  how  bright,  how  easily  contented !" 

She  learned  upon  that  night  that  love  is  to  be  won  by 
adapting  ourselves  to  the  nature  we  desire  to  impress.  Some 
women  eloquently  reclaim  the  love  denied  to  them.  They 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  199 

parade  their  devotion  and  their  unrequited  virtues,  and  the 
world  wonders  at  the  insensibility  of  the  brute 'upon  whose 
heart  the  warmth  and  justice  of  such  passionate  appeals  pro- 
duce no  impression.  And  the  reason  is  that  all  this  eloquence 
is  not  in  sympathy  with  his  nature.  One  hour  of  looking 
beautiful,  one  act  insinuating  devotion,  one  tribute  won 
from  public  opinion  to  a  husband's  taste,  would,  in  the  case 
of  such  a  man  as  Captain  Warner,  have  done  more  than 
volumes  of  appeal  to  confirm  a  wavering  affection. 

I  do  not  say  that  this  should  be.  Perhaps  all  men  ought  to 
be  of  a  poetic  temperament,  all  endowed  with  the  sensibilities 
of  our  own  sex,  in  addition  to  the  masculine  qualities  for 
which  we  love  them.  But,  we  must  take  them  as  they  come, 
and  submit  to  be  valued  by  our  husband's  standard,  even 
though  this  rule  excludes  some  of  our  noblest  qualities,  and 
demands  the  cultivation  of  gifts  which  nature  has  sparingly 
bestowed.  I  wonder  how  much  Captain  Warner  would  have 

been  touched  by  the  letters  of  F K ,  addressed  to 

himself,  or  those  of  the  Duchesse  de  Praslin?  Though  ho 
was  quite  the  sort  of  man  to  yield  them  a  kind  of  chivalrous 
admiration  when  they  appeared  in  the  public  journals. 

And  must  he  die? This  was  the  refrain  of  her 

thoughts.  And  must  lie  die  ?  The  moment  that  the  tumult 
of  her  spirit  lulled,  conscience  presented  her  that  thought.  If 

he  should  die  ? In  agony  of  supplication  she  prayed 

at  intervals,  through  the  long  night,  that  her  husband  might 
be  spared  to  her,  that  the  clouds  and  thick  darkness  that  now 
shrouded  their  married  life  might  be  rolled  back ;  that  they 
might  yet  be  happy.  She  meant,  be  happy  on  the  morrow. 
And  the  watchful  angel,  who  carried  up  the  prayer  and  laid  it 
in  the  golden  censer  before  the  sapphire  throne,  forbore  to 
trouble  her  expectation.  He  knew  that  sudden  grief  rarely 
sees  into  the  future.  He  knew  that  the  utmost  certainty 
of  future  alleviation  will  never  ease  one  throb  of  present  acute 
suffering. 

By  three  o'clock,  the  last  carriages  drove  off.  The  tired 
inmates  of  the  house  came  languidly  one  by  one  up  the  oak  stairs 
to  bed.  She  heard  each  footstep,  and  marked  each  closing  door. 


200  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

But  there  was  one  step  she  listened  for,  which  did  not  come. 
Col.  Guiscard,  however,  had  passed  into  his  chamber,  and  that 
thought  reassured  her.  She  dreaded  to  make  any  disturbance 
in  the  house  for  fear  of  her  husband's  displeasure,  but,  at  all 
risks  to  herself,  she  was  resolved  to  prevent  the  duel. 

Ah  !  how  many  times  that  night  did  her  active  imagination 
picture  him  in  some  unheard  of  peril !  The  duel  was  taking 
place,  and  she,  rushing  into  his  arms,  received  in  her  own 
breast  the  bullet  of  his  adversary,  and  died  his  saving  angel. 
Or,  startled  by  loud  cries  of  fire  from  below,  with  superhuman 
strength  she  burst  the  door.  She  found  him.  She  was  aiding 
him,  guiding  him,  saving  him.  The  strong  man  had  lost  his 
strength,  and  to  the  power  of  her  love  was  like  a  little  child. 
Death  glared  on  them  in  many  shapes,  with  glowing  fiery  eyes. 
Licking  his  red  lips  with  his  forked  tongue,  he  stretched  it  out 
one  moment  to  devour  them.  The  next  a  burning  beam  fell 
on  their  path.  A  mangled  fate  was  at  their  option.  The  fire 
neared  them.  There  was  no  escape.  A  sense  of  suffocation 
oppressed  them  for  one  moment.  Then  all  suffering  was  over, 
and  a  sort  of  languid  happiness  pervaded  her  whole  being,  as 
she  felt  herself  folded  in  her  husband's  arms,  and  looked  up 
dying  in  his  face,  to  read  there  his  forgiveness  and  his  love. 

At  last  she  heard  him  coming  slowly  up  the  staircase.  She 
heard  his  hand  laid  lightly  on  the  lock.  She  scarcely  breathed. 
The  moment  was  coming,  ....  had  come,  when  she  was  to  be 
allowed  to  approach  him  with  explanation  and  entreaty,  and 
she  trembled.  Her  mind  had  vividly  before  it  the  thought, 
that  instead  of  love,  honor,  and  obedience,  she  had  brought  pub- 
lic scandal  into  his  house,  and  she  recalled  with  shame  and  pity 
the  agony  of  expression  she  had  last  seen  upon  the  face  of  old 
Mrs.  Warner. 

But  the  hand  was  lifted,  and  the  step  moved  on.  Then,  in 
her  agony,  she  flung  her  strength  against  the  door,  and  called 
him.  The  softer  thoughts  that  had  been  stirring  in  his  heart 
when  he  had  fancied  her  asleep,  and  longed  to  look  upon  her 
face  once  more,  passed  away  at  this  exhibition  of  her  violence ; 
perhaps  he  took  even  a  sullen  pleasure  in  the  impotence  of  her 
passion,  and  he  went  on  his  way  along  the  corridor,  unmoved 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  201 

by  the  loud  weeping  which  she  had  now  no  inclination  to 
restrain. 

When  this  somewhat  subsided,  she  walked,  in  her  excite- 
ment, round  and  round  her  prison,  with  her  arms  close  pressed 
over  her  throbbing  heart.  She  walked  to  the  window, 
through  which  the  mocking  moon  was  pouring  floods  of  its 
cold,  calm,  pale  light  upon  her  floor.  She  flung  up  the  sash 
softly,  and  sprang,  without  difficulty,  upon  the  balcony  formed 
by  the  roof  of  the  great  colonnade.  Her  idea  had  been  to 
descend  by  some  of  the  tin  spouting,  but  this  a  glance  told  her 
was  impossible.  She  ran  backwards  and  forwards  on  the  bal- 
cony. She  intended,  could  she  get  down,  to  ring  the  bell  of 
the  hall  door,  to  rouse  the  house,  to  make  her  appeal  to  Mr. 
Rustmere ;  at  any  possible  peril  to  herself,  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
projected  duel.  She  tried  one  or  two  of  the  other  windows  that 
looked  out  upon  the  balcony.  They  belonged  to  the  large  spare 
chamber,  and  were  fast.  Only  the  three  guest  chambers  were 
in  that  part  of  the  building.  This  one  was  empty ;  besides 
which  there  was  her  own  room  and  that  of  Col.  Guiscard. 

Oh !  Heaven !  there  was  the  gleam  of  a  light  in  his  room 
through  the  closed  blinds.  She  fancied  she  saw  within  a 
moving  shadow.  Her  terror  misled  her  when  she  was  sure  sho 
heard  him  stepping  out,  roused  by  the  noise  of  her  footsteps  on 
the  balcony.  Anything — everything  was  better  than  that  he 
should  find  her  there. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  colonnade,  along  the  wall  of  the 
house,  there  was  a  painted  trellis,  with  roses,  and  the  flowering 
pomegranate,  and  the  light  clustering  clematis  (barely  budding 
at  this  season)  trained  up  against  it  to  the  second  floor.  In 
her  terror,  she  climbed  over  the  low  balustrade  of  the  balcony, 
and  trusted  her  weight  to  its  support.  Her  delicate  hands  were 
lacerated  by  the  thorns  and  nails  as  she  descended,  stepping 
carefully  from  diamond  to  diamond  in  the  trellis-work,  but 
she  took  no  heed  of  bodily  pain.  When  more  than  half  way 
down  she  heard  a  crack.  The  fastenings  of  the  trellis-work 
were  parting  a  foot  or  so  above  her.  She  hurried,  threw  her 
weight  less  carefully.  Her  foot  became  entangled ;  she  strug- 
gled to  disengage  it;  the  light  wood-work,  already  cracked, 

9* 


202  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

gave  way,  and  she  fell  to  the  ground  having  twisted  her  ankle. 
It  was  not  a  very  severe  fall,  the  shock  being  broken  by  the 
soft  mould  of  the  garden,  and  only  her  face  struck  upon  the 
gravel.  But  the  pain  of  her  ankle  was  intense,  and  nothing  but 
a  determined  courage  of  endurance,  wakened  by  her  fears  of 
Col.  Guiscard,  prevented  her  loud  screams.  She  heard  a  dog 
bark  in  the  stables.  She  was  conscious  of  effort  and  of  agony ; 
and  then  she  fainted.  She  fainted,  lying  alone  in  the  cold, 
calm,  spring  moonlight,  with  her  poor  disfigured  face  lying  cut 
upon  the  gravel,  and  the  wrecks  of  the  buds  and  flowers  she 
had  blighted,  showered  around  her  upon  the  cold,  damp 
ground. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

That  was  wrong  perhaps, — but  then 
Such  things  be — and  will  again  ! 
Women  cannot  judge  for  men 

MRS.  BROWNING.— BERTHA  IN  THE  LANE 

Lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted. 

BYRON. — CHILDE  HAROLD. 

FOR  nearly  two  hours  she  lay  on  the  cold  breast  of  that  great 
mother,  into  whose  womb  each  man  must  enter  a  second  time 
to  be  born  into  eternity.  In  the  most  trying  hours  of  her 
after  years,  when  clouds  and  thick  darkness  narrowed  the  hori- 
zon of  her  life,  till  present  misery  appeared  her  only  portion, 
she  never  weakly  wished  that,  in  this  hour,  a  premature  death 
had  cut  short  all  her  sorrows.  Our  church,  she  felt,  has  wisely 
put  into  our  lips,  without  distinction,  her  thanksgiving  for'our 
"creation  and  preservation,"  amongst  "the  blessings  of  this 
life."  Existence  is  a  blessing  so  long  as  we  can  animate  its 
pulses  by  the  double  hope  of  praising  God  in  weakness,  and  of 
aiding,  even  by  a  mere  patient  endurance  of  our  lot,  the  cause 
of  sad  and  suffering  humanity. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  203 

When  she  opened  her  faint  eyes,  they  met  at  their  first 
glance  the  morning  sun,  just  rising  over  the  low  line  of  Suffolk 
hills,  dim  in  the  eastward.  For  half  a  moment  she  lay  watch- 
ing its  red  and  rayless  disk  as  it  rose,  majestically  slow,  over 
the  horizon.  The  recovery  of  consciousness  is  always  the  same 
process  as  that  of  the  first  consciousness  of  infancy.  A  com- 
placent contemplation  of  external  objects  precedes  in  both 
cases  the  power  of  reflection. 

After  watching  the  sun  for  a  few  moments,  she  remembered 
all  that  had  occurred.  She  recollected  that  she  was  there  to 
prevent  the  sacrifice  of  her  husband,  and  that  the  hour  of  the 
meeting  might  have  passed  while  she  lay  insensible  upon  the 
ground.  Notwithstanding  the  great  pain  she  suffered,  not  only 
in  her  ankle,  but  in  all  her  limbs,  she  managed  to  struggle  to 
her  feet,  and  leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  colonnade, 
she  looked  around  her.  The  sun  had  risen  upon  the  earth  ;  but 
there  was  no  sign  that  any  of  the  earth's  inhabitants  had  risen 
too.  As  she  looked  round,  however,  a  garden  gate  was  opened 
near  the  stables,  and  a  boy  in  his  smock  made  his  appearance 
with  a  milk-pail.  He  was  going  in  a  contrary  direction,  and 
would  not  have  noticed  the  white  figure  leaning  for  support 
against  the  white  pillar,  had  not  Amabel  found  strength  and 
voice  to  call  him  loudly. 

"  Is  any  person  stirring  ?"  she  asked  him. 

"  They're  gettin'  a  carriage  ready  at  the  stables,"  was  the  an- 
swer ;  "  and  some  of  the  gentlemen  is  up.  I  see  four  on  'em 
goin'  out  a  quarter  an  'our  ago  by  the  back  door." 

"  Do  you  know  where  they  went  ?"  cried  Amabel. 

"  No,  I  doan't,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  thought  they  was  a  goin' 
down  by  the  West  Meadow.  They  went  that  way,  all  four." 

"  Oh  !  pull  that  bell— pull  it  hard,"  cried  Amabel.  "  Yet, 
no — stay,"  she  added,  remembering  that  it  was  loss  of  time,  in 
such  a  crisis,  to  wake  up  Mr.  Rustmere.  "  Run  after  them,  my 
boy.  If  you  overtake  them  before  they  fight,  you  shall  have  a 
piece  of  gold.  Tell  Captain  Warner,  I  implore  him  not  to 
fight — that  he  is  under  a  mistake — that  I  will  explain  every- 
thing. Beg  him  to  come  to  me." 

The  boy  set  out  at  full  speed,  animated  by  the  double  pros- 


204  AMABEL;    A  FAMILY   HISTORY. 

pect  of  an  excitement  and  a  guinea.  Amabel,  unable  to  remain 
waiting  in  suspense  the  result  of  her  embassy,  resolved  to  be  a 
witness  of  what  passed.  She  dragged  herself  across  the  lawn, 
— each  painful  step  brushing  the  rime  frost  from  the  grass, — 
towards  a  small  eminence  commanding  a  panoramic  view  of 
the  neighborhood,  on  which  was  built  a  sort  of  circular  summer- 
house  or  temple,  called  by  its  originator  a  belvedere.  When 
she  had  reached  this  spot  and  cast  her  eyes  around,  she  saw, 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below,  in  the  West  Meadow,  the 
group  she  was  in  search  of.  To  the  right,  her  little  messenger 
was  running  very  fast,  and  making  signals ;  but  it  was  evi- 
dent he  would  not  reach  the  spot  till  all  was  over.  The  ground 
was  measured,  and  the  parties  with  their  weapons  were  in  the 
act  of  taking  aim.  They  were  too  far  off  to  be  distinguished 
from  one  another  ;  but  she  saw  the  flash  and  heard  the  shot. 
Forgetting  her  own  wounds,  she  started  to  run  down  the  hill ; 
but  her  ankle  gave  way  under  her,  and  she  was  compelled  to 
sit  down  on  the  damp  grass  and  await  the  issue. 

Oh !  how  she  prayed  in  very  agony  of  supplication,  as  if 
prayer  could  even  then  reverse  the  decree  that  had  gone  forth, 
and  had  been  executed,  that  our  Father  in  Heaven  would  spare 
her  husband ! 

At  length  one  man  disengaged  himself  from  the  group,  and 
making  a  straight  course  for  the  house,  came  directly  towards 
her.  As  he  approached  the  Belvedere,  the  sun  glanced  on  the 
gold  lace  of  his  undress  uniform,  and  she  saw  it  was  her  hus- 
band. 

She  waved  her  hands  to  him.  She  called  to  him.  I  don't 
think  that  at  first  all  this  attracted  his  attention,  otherwise  he 
might  have  turned  aside  to  avoid  her.  As  it  was,  he  almost 
came  upon  her  unawares,  and  stopped  breathless. 

"  Leonard !" 

She  made  an  effort  to  rise  and  throw  herself  upon  his  breast, 
but  it  was  unsuccessful.  She  fell  at  his  feet.  Fear,  and  thank- 
fulness, and  pain,  and  agitation  choked  her  voice,  but  she 
gasped  out :  "  I  thank  God  you  are  safe.  I  prayed  you  might 
be  safe." 

"  That's  his  blood,"  said  Captain  Warner,  fiercely  agitated. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  205 

"  That  is  his  blood,"  displaying  his  hands,  "  and  mine,"  hold- 
ing out  his  left  arm.  "  You  may  be  proud  of  your  work.  You 
have  been  the  death  of  one  man  and  the  dishonor  of  another. 
Do  you  hear  me,  Madam  ?"  he  continued,  taking  hold  of  her ; 
"  do  you  know  that  you  have  been  my  ruin  ?  Do  you  know 
that  I  am  a  deserter  from  my  ship — from  my  post  in  time  of 
danger  ?  Do  you  know,"  he  continued,  raising  his  voice,  "  that  I 
shall  be  tried  for  this  by  a  court-martial,  and  be  shot,  Madam  ?" 

"  Listen,  Leonard.  Forgive  me  if  you  can,"  she  faintly  fal- 
tered. 

He  pushed  her  back. 

"  Leonard !" — she  clasped  her  arms  tight  round  his  knees— 
her  white  arms  glancing  bare  in  the  bright  morning  sunlight — 
"  hear  me,  not  for  my  own  sake,  Leonard,  but  for  our  child  ! 
The  child  that  I  shall  bear  you,  dearest  Leonard  !" 

He  broke  from  her  with  an  oath. 

"  By  the  heaven  that's  above  us,"  he  exclaimed,  "  name  no 
child  of  yours  to  me.  I'll  not  acknowledge  it.  No  court  of 
justice  upon  earth  could  force  me  to  acknowledge  it.  I  dis- 
own it — I  disown  you.  Swear !  swear  1"  he  cried,  growing 
more  and  more  excited,  as  unconsciously,  perhaps,  he  presented 
the  pistol  he  held  in  his  right  hand  at  her  head,  "  swear  that 
if  I  spare  you  and  myself  the  scandal  of  a  public  separation, 
you  will  never  proclaim  you  are  my  wife — that  you  will  hide 
yourself  far,  far  away,  where  no  one  knows  my  misery.  Swear 
that  your  child  shall  never  bear  the  name  of  Warner.  Swear 
quickly.  Swear — " 

"  Oh  God  !     Oh  Leonard  !" 

She  bowed  her  poor  young  head,  and  fainted  at  his  feet. 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  remarked  her  dress,  and  saw  the 
bleeding  wounds  upon  her  face  and  hands.  The  Captain's 
heart  melted  at  the  sight  of  physical  suffering  in  a  woman. 
Her  present  condition,  as  she  lay,  pale,  broken,  helpless,  on  the 
earth,  seemed  a  sort  of  earnest  in  his  eyes  of  her  future  fate. 
He  vowed  in  his  heart  to  place  her  so  far  above  want  as  to  be 
beyond  temptation. 

He  took  up  her  light  girlish  form  in  his  strong  arms.  Once 
more  her  heart  beat  against  his  heart.  This  once  more  her 


206  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

husband's  arms  were  shielding  her  from  evil.  He  carried  her 
up  to  the  Belvedere  as  tenderly  and  as  carefully  as  if  she  had 
still  been  the  bride  of  his  love.  Laying  her  down  upon  the 
floor,  he  pillowed  her  drooping  head  upon  his  wounded  arm, 
and  then  remarked  how  thin  and  insufficient  was  her  dress,  and 
how  thickly  hung  the  damp  drops  in  her  hair,  and  drapery. 
His  camlet  cloak  was  on  his  arm — needed,  indeed,  to  conceal 
his  uniform  in  travelling.  Without  concealment,  he  would 
fearfully  increase  the  risk  of  evidence  against  him,  should  he 
be  called  to  answer  for  his  life  on  a  court-martial.  But  he 
wrapped  it  tenderly  around  her,  laid  its  folds  so  as  to  secure  her 
from  the  cold,  and  its  cape  to  be  her  pillow,  and  then  before  he 
left  her — they  were  alone — before  he  left,  and  gave  her  up  for 
ever,  he — 

Have  you  never  crept  at  midnight  to  the  bedside  of  your 
dearest  one,  when  the  sun  has  gone  down  on  wrath  between 
you,  and  pride,  policy,  or  temper  have  denied  her  the  manifes- 
tation of  returning  tenderness, — have  you  never  crept,  I  ask,  to 
her  bedside  as  she  slept,  and  with  soft  kisses  eased  your  heart 
of  its  bitterness,  since  all  the  time  she  could  not  know  how 
wakeful  and  how  watchful  and  undying  was  your  love  ? 

Even  so,  though  Captain  Warner  hated  himself  half  an  hour 
later  for  the  impulse,  he  bent  over  her  young  face  as  she  lay 
unconscious,  and  with  his  warm  lips  pressed  upon  her  pale  and 
icy  ones,  gave  h'er  one  long,  last,  agonized  embrace  before  he 
left  her. 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

Elle  n'aime  pins  ricn  ;  elle  ne  veut  plus  rien  aimer.  Son  enfance  a  passe  comme 
vont  passer  ces  belles  fleurs  ;  sa  jeunesse  s'est  evanouie  comme  s'en  ira  bientot  le  par- 
fum  du  lis — la  fleur  des  rois  de  France.  Plus  rien  n'est  reste  dans  le  coeur  de  cette 
femme  qne  les  regrets  du  pass6.  En  meme  temps,  la  croyance  n'est  pas  encore  venue  ; 
la  pauvre  malade  n'a  pas  pu  se  resigner  a  prier  Dieu  en  toute  hunulite  d'esprit  et  de 
c<Bur. — L'Amcricain  a  Paris. 

WHEN  next  her  eyes  unclosed,  and  she  was  conscious  of  any 
of  the  objects  round  her,  they  rested  on  an  irregular  join  in  the 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  207 

blue  and  white  checked  curtains  of  the  tent  bed  on  which  she 
found  herself.  After  lying  a  few  moments  helplessly  wonder- 
ing at  the  needless  irregularity,  she  raised  herself  and  looked 
around. 

She  was  in  the  low  room  of  a  farm-house,  with  a  large  beam 
traversing  the  ceiling,  a  roughly  boarded  floor  spread  with 
some  neat  pieces  of  carpet,  some  wooden  chairs,  an  old-fash- 
ioned chest  of  mahogany  drawers,  radiantly  polished,  and  an 
eight-day  clock,  with  a  large  round  face,  heavily  ticking  to  the 
lazy  movement  of  its  weights  and  pendulum.  She  sank  back 
in  bed,  exhausted  with  the  exertion,  and  lay  quiet,  watching 
the  movement  of  the  clock,  free  from  pain,  or  any  sense  of 
care,  feeling  languidly  at  ease  and  happy. 

Presently  she  heard  voices  in  the  room  next  to  her.  One 
seemed  to  her  like  the  voice  of  her  step-father,  Captain  Talbot, 
but  she  was  too  weak  to  disturb  her  mind  by  any  speculation 
as  to  why  he  was  there. 

"  He  certainly  has  behaved  most  handsomely.  In  no  case 
could  he  possibly  have  done  more  for  her ;  and  under  the  cir- 
cumstances not  one  man  in  a  thousand  would  have  made  such 
sacrifices  to  provide  for  his  wife.  Captain  Warner  is  not  rich. 
Till  his  mother's  death  he  has  little  beyond  his  pay,  or  half- 
pay,  to  depend  on,  and  he  gives  up  all  her  fortune.  The  inte- 
rest of  £12,000  makes  a  difference  in  a  man's  income.  It  is  a 
most  handsome,  and  liberal,  and  generous  provision  for  her." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Captain  Talbot ;  "  Warner  is  a  fine  fel- 
low, and  from  my  heart  I  pity  him.  He  is  a  man  who  would 
be  particularly  cut  up  by  anything  of  this  kind.  When  they 
married,  the  match  was  going  to  be  a  very  happy  thing,  I 
thought.  He  was  uncommonly  fond  of  her  and  proud  of  her." 

"  And  she  of  him  ?" 

"  Well,  no :  she  did  very  well.  I  suppose  she  might  have 
been  more  so." 

"  Twelve  thousand  pounds  is  six  hundred  a  year,"  said  the 
other  party. 

"  Oh,  more  than  that,  a  great  deal  more,  my  good  sir,"  cried 
Captain  Talbot.  "  I  shall  get,  as  her  trustee,  at  least  five  and 
a  half  to  six  per  cent,  for  it.  The  money  is  entirely  her  own. 


208  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORT. 

He  has  settled  it  upon  her,  principal  and  interest,  to  spend,  or 
to  save,  or  to  will  to  her  relations." 

"  Very  handsome,  indeed,  Captain,"  said  the  other. 

"  Here  is  his  letter  to  me,"  said  Captain  Talbot.  "  Nothing 
can  be  more  decisive  as  to  the  disposition  of  her  fortune.  I 
am  really  sorry  for  his  position.  It  is  a  mere  letter  of  busi- 
ness ;  no  reproaches  to  her.  But  you  see  by  it,  Mr.  Trevor, 
he  gives  her  up  entirely." 

After  a  pause,  the  other  said :  "  A  very  good  letter.  The 
letter  of  a  merciful  man,  Captain.  Where  will  she  reside,  sir  I" 

"  Well,  I  would  have  been  willing  to  take  her  home  to  us, 
poor  thing,"  said  Captain  Talbot ;  "  but  my  wife  says  not. 
You  know  how  women  view  these  things ;  and  we  have  daugh- 
ters growing  up." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  understand.     How  is  her  ladyship,  sir  ?" 

"  She  has  been  ailing,  and  this  thing  seems  to  have  broken 
her  down.  It  is  not  expedient,  I  think,  that  she  should  see 
her  daughter.  Lady  Karnac  is  a  woman  of  strong  feelings, 
and  she  might  say  more  to  the  poor  girl  than  she  could  bear. 
Women  don't  make  allowance  in  these  things  for  the  arts  and 
insinuations  of  the  other  party." 

"  Very  true,  sir,  you  say  true,"  replied  Trevor,  who  was  an 

attorney  from  C .  And  then  they  proceeded  to  talk  law. 

Every  word  that  they  had  said,  Amabel's  memory  laid  up  in 
her  heart,  though  at  present  she  was  so  weak  that  by  a  merci- 
ful provision  of  nature  they  were  not  able  to  move  her.  Pride 
and  affection,  anger  and  remorse,  sat  at  her  heart  and  waited  for 
an  entrance.  Admitted,  they  would  rend  and  tear  it  in  their 
conflict ;  but  at  present  they  joined  hands  and  sat  waiting  at 
the  door. 

A  gentle  sleep  stole  over  her.  It  was  one  of  those  warm, 
bright,  genial  days  that  come  by  twos  and  threes  during  the 
month  of  April.  She  was  scarcely  yet  sufficiently  recalled  to 
life,  to  be  conscious  of  its  burthens.  When  she  awoke,  an  elderly 
woman  in  a  dark  stuff  gown,  was  standing  in  the  open  door- 
way, watching  the  simmering  of  some  concoction  in  a  sauce- 
pan, and  talking  at  the  same  time  to  persons  in  the  next  room, 
who  appeared  to  be  dining. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  209 

"  How  is  she  to-day,  wife  ?"  said  a  rough  voice  with  a  strong 
rustic  accent,  but  in  kindly  tones. 

"  Well,  master,  she  is  getting  along  purely.  She  hasn't  got 
no  fever  left  on  her."  (Here  the  farmer's  wife  came  up  to  the 
bed  and  passed  her  hand  over  her  breast,  to  feel  her.)  "  But 
such  a  fever  as  she  've  had,  takes  a  sight  of  time  for  a  body  to 
get  over.  Most  especial,  as  the  Doctor  says,  when  she's  got  so 
much  upon  her  mind,  together  too  with  her  poor  ankle." 

"  Well,  wife,  no  one  can  say  you  hav'n't  done  your  duty  by 
her,"  rejoined  the  farmer.  "  My  missus,"  he  added,  "  has  tended 
that  poor  thing  as  if  she  had  been  her  own  flesh  and  blood. 
She  could'n't  have  done  more  by  her.  She  Ve  sat  up  with  her 
every  half  the  night  t'  month  that  she  have  been  here.  I  say 
that,  however  bad  any  poor  creetur  has  been,  when  it  comes 
to  a  case  of  sickness,  that's  njo  more  than  what  we're  bound 
for.  I  don't  respect  my  lady  at  the  hall, my  lady  Har- 
riet, for  being  too  good  to  take  in  a  poor  sinner.  But  that,  to 
be  sure,  is  not  anything  that  concerns  me.  That  is  not  our 
affair.  We've  got  to  do  our  own  duty  in  this  life,  and  let 
other  folks'  duty  alone." 

"  Oh !  I  never  was  so  scared,  I  think,  in  all  my  life,"  said  a 
dairy  maid,  "  as  when  I  saw  them  bringing  along  those  two, 
like  bloody  corpses  just  for  all  the  world." 

"  And  poor  dear,"  said  the  farmer's  wife,  "  to  hear  her  going 
on  raving  about  deaths,  and  fires,  and  bloody  wounds.  And 
taking  me  now  for  one  person,  and  now  for  another.  And 
talking  in  all  sorts  of  tongues,  poor  dear.  I'm  sure  I  never 
thought  she  would  have  got  over  it.  And  begging  me,  and 
praying  me  to  let  her  speak  to  her  husband.  If  he  had  been 
here  hisself,  I'm  sure  he'd  have  took  pity  on  her,  for  they  say, 
he  was  a  worthy  man,  and  always  a  good  husband.  And 
then,  she'd  get  so  violent,"  she  continued,  proceeding  in  her 
reminiscences,  "  till  it  took  all  the  strength  of  me  and  my  good 
man,  to  hold  her,  and  put  her  back  into  her  bed.  And  there 

she'd  lay  and  moan, oh !  such  moans !  till  another 

fit  came  on  her." 

"  Did  she  ever  talk  about  that  other  chap  ?"  said  the  farmer 

"Well,  she  talked  a  heap  about  them  all.     Which  was 


210  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

which  I  don't  know,  master.  I  never  should  go,  of  course,  to 
name  him  to  her." 

"I  shall,"  said  one  dairymaid  to  another,  as  they  went 
together  past  the  window.  "  I  long  to  tell  her  that  her  sweet- 
heart wasn't  killed.  When  she  gets  better  she  might  take  on 
about  him,  you  know." 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  said  the  other  girl. 

"  Oh  !  Jim  says  he's  at  C ,  up  at  the  Castle.  They  took 

him  there  when  he  got  better.  And,  because  he's  a  Frenchy, 
he's  a  what-d'ye-call — a  detenu" 

This  was  all  that  Amabel  ever  knew  of  what  had  passed 
during  her  illness.  Such  conversations  were  never  renewed 
again  in  her  hearing.  The  dairymaid,  finding  her  on  her 
recovery  quite  a  different  person  to  what  her  imagination  had 
depicted,  had  never  courage  to  speak  to  her;  and  the  only  other 
circumstance  she  learned  by  chance,  was  from  Jim,  the  milk 
boy,  to  whom  she  paid  the  guinea  she  had  promised,  who  said 
that  Captain  Warner  had  paid  him  and  Tom  Harris  hand- 
somely to  send  help  to  her,  as  she  lay  in  the  Belvedere. 

That  Lady  Harriet  had  refused  to  receive  her  in  her  hour  of 
distress;  that  all  the  county  believed  Ferdinand  her  lover; 
that  he  was  not  dead  (for  which  she  thanked  God  for  her  hus- 
band's sake)  and  that  Lady  Harriet,  having  sent  her  to  the 
farm,  she  had  been  taken  in,  and  tenderly  nursed  by  these  good 

strangers, was  enough.  She  cared  to  know  no  more, 

and  made  no  further  inquiries. 

And  now  she  opened  her  beseeching,  piteous  eyes,  as  the 
farmer's  wife  came  near  to  beat  and  freshen  up  the  pillows. 
She  smiled  a  weak,  faint  smile,  and  put  her  thin  hand  out  of 
bed. 

"  Too  kind — too  good,"  were  the  only  words  she  could 
make  audible. 

"  There — there,  you  must  be  still  and  don't  speak.  I  am 
sure  you  are  quite  welcome  to  anything  we've  done  for  you," 
said  the  farmer's  wife,  throwing  a  little  severity  into  her  voice, 
for  virtue's  sake,  smoothing  the  bed-clothes  gently  over  her 
at  the  same  time,  and  going  to  the  fire  to  stir  anew  her 
gruel. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  211 

"  Get  out,  dog,  do,"  she  said,  impatiently,  to  a  little  intruder 
who  ventured  through  the  door-way.  Amabel,  who  was 
watching  all  that  passed,  said,  "  Put  him  out.  Don't  let  him 
come  near  me." 

But  the  little  thing,  before  the  farmer's  wife  could  catch 
him  in  her  arms,  made  a  spring  upon  the  bed,  dragged  himself 
close  to  his  sick  mistress,  and,  with  a  low  whine,  laid  his  cold 
nose  to  her  cheek.  As  she  turned  her  eyes  on  him  he  seemed 
to  know  that  at  last  she  recognised  him,  for,  wagging  his  tail 
joyfully,  he  began  to  lick  her  face  and  hands. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  farmer's  wife,  "  he  has  done  so  all  the  time, 
ma'am.  Sometimes  you  did  not  mind  him,  and  sometimes  you 
would  shriek  if  he  came  near  you.  But  we  hav'nt  been  able 
to  keep  the  poor  beast  out  of  here.  He  took  on  so  bad  when 
some  of  the  men  tied  him,  that  my  old  man  fancied  it  seemed 
cruel,  so  I  have  kept  his  coat  clean  and  sweet  that  he  might 
not  soil  the  sheets.  He  is  seldom  long  away  from  you." 

"  Let  him  stay,  poor  dog,"  said  Amabel.  "  My  poor,  dear 
Barba  !  My  one  true  friend."  She  threw  her  arms  over  his 
back,  she  laid  her  face  against  his  snowy  coat,  and  he  pressed 
his  against  her  bosom.  Large  quiet  tears  fell  slowly  from  her 
eyes,  and  now  she  felt  her  desolation.  Cast  off,  wretched,  and 
degraded ;  guilty  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  and  in  her  own,  she 
felt  the  shame  of  her  position.  Her  husband's  generosity 
barbed  the  arrows  of  humiliation.  There  was  a  dawning  de- 
sire that  she  might  yet  prove  less  unworthy  than  he  thought 
her,  and  love  was  reawakened  for  the  unattainable. 

For  the  next  week  or  two,  she  could  only  keep  awake  a  few 
hours  at  a  time,  and  was  amused  by  almost  any  moving  object 
round  her.  The  farmer's  wife  slept  in  her  room  at  night,  and, 
during  the  day,  was  attentive  to  all  her  wants  and  wishes ;  but 
as  her  patient  became  better  she  found  time  for  other  things, 
and,  as  she  went  about  her  business,  Amabel,  lying  on  the  tent- 
bed,  under  the  blue  check  curtains,  or  sitting  up  in  a  cumbrous 
sick  chair  beside  the  fire,  imbibed  innumerable  ideas  of  domestic 
economy,  and  gained  an  insight  into  English  life,  which  years 
of  mere  drawing-room  intercourse  never  would  have  given  her. 
She  saw  no  person  save  the  farm- people,  except  Captain  Talbot. 


212  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

who  came  over  twice  or  thrice  to  see  her,  and  showed  her,  at 
her  own  request,  her  husband's  letter,  which,  while  it  spoke  of 
his  safe  return  to  the  Magician,  which,  delayed  by  contrary 
winds  for  two  days  at  Spithead,  had  saved  his  being  called  to 
answer  for  his  desertion,  completely  overcame  her.  Captain 
Talbot  wanted  to  converse  about  her  affairs,  but  she  assured 
him  she  was  not  capable  of  anything  of  that  sort,  and  inquired, 
impatiently,  if  he  could  not  manage  all  her  business  for  her. 

"  Not  without  a  power  of  attorney,"  he  replied. 

"  Oh !  get  as  many  attorneys  as  you  please,"  was  her  an- 
swer. 

So  the  Captain  brought  her,  the  next  time  he  came,  a  parch- 
ment, which  she  signed  without  looking  over,  her  hand 
trembling  as  she  wrote  her  name,  "  Amabel  Warner." 

"  I  shall  give  up  that  name,"  she  said  to  her  step-father, 
pointing  to  it  with  her  pen. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  he  said,  crossly.  "  A  divorce  itself 
would  not  compel  you  to  that." 

"  I  shall  give  it  up,"  she  said,  with  quivering  lips.  "  It  was 
the  only  stipulation  he  made  with  me.  Obedience  upon  this 
point  is  the  only  way  left  me  to  give  him  pleasure  now." 

As  she  grew  better  and  gained  strength  to  read,  her  host, 
the  farmer,  brought  her  all  his  library.  The  books  she  liked 
the  best  were  one  descriptive  of  his  wife's  native  village,  The 
Complete  Angler,  and  The  Life  of  Fuller,  also  by  Isaac  Walton. 
Rural  pleasures  were  to  her  a  new,  or  rather  a  revived  idea, 
and  happiness  in  religious  practices  was  so  also. 

The  parish  had  been  a  college  living,  and  its  present  incum- 
bent was  a  bachelor.  He  was  a  man  of  learning,  and  a  good 
man  ;  but  at  all  times  shy  ;  and  to  have  presented  himself  at 
the  bedside  of  an  erring  woman  (one  more  especially  who  had 
moved  in  the  upper  ranks  of  life  before  she  fell),  to  preach 
repentance  and  amendment  and  remission  of  sins,  was  an  idea 
which  had  never  disturbed  his  sluggish  imagination.  He  would 
have  come  of  course  had  he  been  sent  for,  but  sending  for  a 
clergyman  would  as  little  have  entered  into  Amabel  Warner's 
mind. 

Aa  she  became  familiar  with  the  habits  of  thought  of  the 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY  HISTORT.  213 

people  about  her,  she  was  amazed  at  their  capabilities  of 
grumbling.  Dissatisfaction  is  elevated  into  a  virtue  very  fre- 
quently in  England.  There  is  a  piety  that  demands  its  constant 
exercise ;  there  is  a  gentility  that  builds  itself  upon  it ;  and 
above  all,  there  is  a  sort  of  loyalty  to  early  associations  which 
makes  a  grumbling  current  throughout  after  life,  the  token  of 
a  loving  remembrance  of  the  past,  amongst  the  English 
poor. 

Mrs.  Dryden  was  not  a  native  of  the  Eastern  Counties.  She 
had  been  born  in  a  small,  secluded,  very  rural  village,  on  the 
edge  of  that  great  heath  country,  pretty  equally  distributed 
between  the  counties  of  Hampshire,  Sussex,  and  Surrey.  Sho 
had,  after  her  marriage,  been  brought  thence  by  a  brother  of 
Mr.  Rustmere,  who,  being  privileged  to  shoot  one  season  over 
the  Royal  Forest,  had  heard  Farmer  Dryden  recommended  as 
a  good  head-man  upon  a  property,  and  had  tempted  him. 
to  settle  upon  his  brother's  estate  in  the  Eastern  Counties. 
Love  to  her  native  village  was  like  a  hinge  to  every  one  of 
Mrs.  Dryden's  thoughts.  Whatever  she  said  or  did  turned 
thereupon.  If  she  made  a  drop  of  gruel,  or  a  cooling  drink 
for  Amabel,  she  had  a  word  to  say  about  the  water,  comparing 
its  qualities  (unquestionably  superior  in  the  wash-tub)  with  the 
more  limpid  freshness  of  her  native  springs.  Coal  smoke  was 
the  hourly  theme  of  her  discourse,  and  her  abomination.  She 
traced  to  its  influence  every  malady  that  afflicts  the  human 
frame.  The  smell  of  a  fire  of  peat  Amabel  began  to  imagine 
from  her  description  must  be  as  fragrant  as  pastilles.  Forty 
times  a  day  she  railed  against  the  prevalence  of  agues, 
"  unknown,"  as  she  said  truly,  "  in  the  parts  I  come  from." 
Any  person,  without  prejudice,  equally  acquainted  with  both 
districts,  would  certainly  not  give  to  Mrs.  Dryden's  native  soil 
an  agricultural  preference  over  the  Eastern  Counties;  but  she 
constantly  described  it  to  her  visitor  as  a  land  flowing  with 
milk  and  honey,  a  land  of  flocks  and  herds,  and  turf,  and  bees, 
and  venison.  The  poor  had  no  privileges  in  Essex,  she 
declared.  No  turf  land,  no  commons,  no  hop-picking  (that 
second  harvest  in  September,  when  all  that  the  women  make 
by  hopping,  is  their  own  by  long  established  right,  and  helps 


214  AMABEL;   A   FAMILT   HISTORY. 

to  furnish  their  families  with  winter  clothing).  Amabel,  con- 
valescent and  quiescent,  heard  the  stories  of  her  native  place 
with  pleasure ;  and  in  the  evening,  when  the  work  of  the  family 
was  over,  she  would  coax  Mrs.  Dryden  to  sit  down  by  the  fire 
in  her  room  (which  she  did  with  her  hands  spread  out  upon 
her  lap)  and  gossip  by  the  hour.  Amabel  was  like  a  child 
who  hears  and  loves  strange  stories,  and  an  interest  in  the  life 
of  the  peasantry  in  England  was  something  entirely  new  to 
her.  She  listened  with  pleasure  to  descriptions  of  the  villagers, 
to  anecdotes  of  the  old  Vicar  who  knew  so  well  the  events  and 
history  of  the  people  in  his  parish,  that  he  seemed  by  magic  to 
come  forward  with  the  right  help  at  the  right  moment  in  their 
hour  of  trouble.  He  it  was  who,  when  Mrs.  Dryden  left  her  parish, 
gave  her  the  Bible  that  she  read  out  of  on  Sundays,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  head  in  solemn  sacerdotal  blessing.  Then  follow- 
ed a  description  of  his  son,  the  present  Vicar,  who  had  succeeded 
his  father  since  she  came  away.  Mrs.  Dryden  had  lived 
as  servant  in  the  house  before  she  married,  and  u  we  didn't  use 
to  do  so  in  the  Vicar's  family,"  was  her  phrase  of  condemna- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Dryden  loved  to  have  a  listener ;  Amabel's  station 
in  life  perhaps  added  to  her  value,  and  as  the  good  woman  sat 
talking  of  the  days  of  her  unmarried  life,  and  of  the  home  and 
interests  of  her  childhood,  she  half  forgot  the  sinner  in  the 
lady.  Amabel  grew  familiar  with  the  localities  of  that  district. 
She  heard  traditions  of  great  snow  storms  in  the  forest ;  stories 
of  the  echoes  that  abound  there ;  stories  of  Mrs.  Dryden's 
fathers  farm,  of  the  big  dog  Smoker,  and  his  prowess  ;  stories 
of  the  wych  elm  whose  leaves  charmed  formerly  all  manner  of 
disease  amongst  the  cattle,  and  of  the  big  old  oak  around 
whose  trunk  the  ancients  of  the  village  had  their  seat,  while 
lads  and  lasses  frolicked  on  the  green. 

Sometimes,  though  rarely — for  Mrs.  Dryden  never  was  quite 
easy  upon  these  occasions,  and  was  less  friendly  to  her  patient 
after  them — the  farmer,  by  permission,  came  himself  into  her 
room,  and  emptied  his  short  pipe  beside  her  fire.  He  was 
something  of  a  reader,  but  had  never  before  been  thrown  into 
familiar  intercourse  with  a  more  cultivated  mind.  All  literary 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY  HISTORY.  215 

fancies  he  had  hitherto  had  to  himself  in  his  own  circle,  and 
the  pain  of  isolation  in  any  pursuit  diminishes  its  pleasures. 
And  now  as  he  talked  over  with  his  guest  his  favorite  books 
which  he  had  lent  her,  the  warmth  of  the  pleasure  he  took  in 
them  was  never  chilled  by  coming  into  contact  with  colder 
feelings  than  his  own.  As  another  man  has  said  in  the  same 
case,  "  I  received  an  additional  warmth  of  delight  from  her 
glowing  admiration." 

No  person  ever  had  more  of  this  beautiful  intuition  of  sym- 
pathy than  Amabel.  I  remember  my  father  once  applying  to 
her  this  passage  which  Emerson  has  credited  to  a  Persian 
poet: 

"  For  though  the  bias  of  her  nature  was  to  sympathy  not 
thought,  yet  was  she  so  perfect  in  her  own  nature,  as  to  meet 
intellectual  persons  by  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  warming  them 
by  her  sentiments,  believing  as  she  did  that  by  dealing  nobly 
with  all,  all  would  show  themselves  noble." 

Farmer  Dryden  would  grow  almost  eloquent  on  these  occa- 
sions, and  as  he  felt  his  powers  of  mind  drawn  out  under  the 
influence  of  her  sympathy,  he  came  to  enjoy  these  intellectual 
hours  so  much  that  one  is  not  surprised  at  Mrs.  Dryden's 
uneasy  remembrance  at  those  times  of  the  moral  humiliation 
of  her  guest's  position,  and  at  her  always  attempting  to  direct 
the  conversation  into  channels  more  inteiesting  and  compre- 
hensible to  herself,  such  as  descriptions  of  the  deer-stalking 
carried  on  within  the  memory  cf  man  in  the  King's  Forest, 
and  a  story  which  Farmer  Dryden  had  inherited  from  his 
grandfather,  of  how  the  Red  Deer  of  Wolmer  paid  their  court 
before  Queen  Anne. 

A  more  healthful  stimulant  for  her  mind  than  such  inter- 
course at  this  period  could  not  have  been  offered  her.  For  two 
years  all  her  interests  in  life  had  been  grouped  about  herself. 
Life  had  become  too  much  individualized.  As  one  says,  "  Our 
'individual  life  must  be  tempered  in  the  common  elements  of 
universal  life.  In  isolation  our  own  weakness  becomes  pain- 
ful." 

It  was  a  bright  and  beautiful  Sunday.  The  whole  earth  was 
perfume :1  with  Spring  odors, — the  scent  •  f  the  apple-blossoms 


216  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

came  in  gusts  from  the  green  orchard,  and  the  lilac  and  syringa 
bushes  made  a  pleasant  fragrance  round  the  farmer's  door, 
•when,  during  the  hours  of  morning  service,  Amabel  took  her 
first  walk  in  the  open  air. 

By  all  her  nerves,  through  all  her  pores,  she  seemed  to  im- 
bibe new  life,  new  health,  and  a  fresh  sense  of  beauty.  She 
lingered  in  the  garden  amongst  the  sweet  thyme  and  the 
rosemary,  the  opening  bed  of  stocks,  and  the  syringa  bushes. 
She  ventured  beyond  the  gate ;  the  singing  of  the  congregation, 
borne  on  the  soft  air  towards  her,  mingled  harmoniously  with 
nature's  scents  and  sounds.  Suddenly,  she  became  aware  that 
the  congregation  was  dismissed,  and  she  knew  herself  too  feeble 
to  get  back  to  the  farm  before  a  dozen  or  more  persons  must 
pass  her.  She  made  what  haste  she  could,  and  was  just  con- 
cealed behind  the  lime  hedge,  when  Lady  Harriet  came  by.  As 
she  passed  the  farm-gate,  Amabel  heard  her  speak  to  Mrs. 
Dryden.  "  When  does  she  talk  of  going  ?"  were  the  words 
that  met  her  ear. 

When  does  she  talk  of  going  ?  And  whither  ? — whither, 
alas !  should  she  go  ? 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  this  question  had  presented 
itself  for  consideration  ;  but  now  it  seemed  to  press  for  a  deci- 
sion, and  the  remainder  of  the  day  she  spent  almost  entirely 
alone,  leaning  back  in  her  sick  chair  in  painful  meditation. 
Mrs.  Dryden  attributed  this  stillness  to  fatigue,  and  was  not 
surprised  to  find  her  languid  the  next  morning.  An  hour  or 
two  later,  when  she  came  again  into  the  chamber,  Amabel  was 
still  in  bed  ;  and,  on  her  lifting  up  her  face,  Mrs.  Dryden  saw 
she  had  been  crying.  She  came  up  to  her,  and  found  the  pil- 
lows and  her  handkerchief  soaked  in  tears. 

"  Now,  doan't  'e,  now,  there  is  a  good  lady,"  she  began.  "  If 
you  take  on  so " 

But  her  patient  interrupted  her,  by  taking  hold  of  her  hand. 

"  Dear,  kind,  good  Mrs.  Dryden  !"  Raising  herself  in  bed, 
she  burst  into  tears  again  and  proceeded.  "  Dear  Mrs.  Dryden, 
I  have  been  bad  enough,  and  done  wrong  enough,  Heaven 
knows ;  but  I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  think  me,  as  you 
do,  a  hundred  times  more  wicked  than  I  am.  For  the  sake  of 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  217 

what  is  right,  I  ought  not  to  let  you  think  worse  than  need  be 
of  nay  conduct,  though,  at  first,  when  I  got  better,  life  seemed 
to  me  a  gift  so  hard  to  take  back  thankfully,  that  I  did  not 
care  what  you  thought,  or  what  anybody  thought  of  me.  Oh  ! 
Mrs.  Dryden,"  she  went  on,  "  I  have  not  been  a  good  wife  to  a 
husband  who  deserved  a  better  woman.  I  married  him  with- 
out appreciating  him,  and  I  have  never,  till  very  lately,  known 
his  value.  When  his  honor  and  his  reputation  were  assailed, 
I  did  not  shield  them.  When  his  happiness  was  in  my  hands 
I  cared  not  for  the  keeping.  I  never  sought  to  gratify  his 
tastes  or  to  consult  his  disposition.  I  never  tried  to  be  the  sort 
of  woman  that  he  fancied.  I  never  tried  to  make  the  best  of 
anything  to  please  him.  I  never  tried  to  secure  or  to  deserve 
his  love.  But  Mrs.  Dryden,  indeed — indeed — indeed  I  was  not 
otherwise,  in  thought,  or  word,  or  deed,  unfaithful  to  my  hus- 
band. Indeed  I  love  him,  though  I  took  so  little  pains  to 
prove  it ;  and  if  there  is  a  being  upon  earth  that  I  could  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  hate,  it  is  that  man  whom  people  have  dared 
— have  dared  to  suppose  I  loved  !" 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  farmer's  wife  replied,  "  If 
this  is  the  case,  Mrs.  Warner,  why  don't  you  make  up  matters 
with  the  captain  ?  He  is  hasty,  people  tell  me,  but  a  good  man, 
and  a  just ;  leastways,  so  they  say  of  him." 

"  No,"  said  Amabel,  shaking  her  head  slowly  ;  "  he  is  glad 
to  be  rid  of  me,  Mrs.  Dryden,  and  no  wonder.  No  explana- 
tion I  could  give  would  make  us  happy  now.  Indeed,"  she 
added,  in  a  lower  voice,  "  I  hardly  know  that,  as  things  now 
stand,  he  would  believe  my  explanation." 

Probably,  if  Mrs.  Dryden  was  acquainted  with  the  circum- 
stance of  her  having  ordered  a  post-chaise  by  night  to  be  at 
the  Park-gate  of  Foxley,  this  was  the  only  part  that  she  believed 
of  this  exculpatory  testimony. 

"  Don't  go  yet,  Mrs  Dryden,"  Amabel  said,  as  the  farmer's  wife 
was  leaving  the  chamber.  "  You  have  been  so  good  to  me, — 
so  kind  in  my  distress,  notwithstanding  your  ill  opinion  !  Will 
you  give  me  that  portfolio  from  the  table  ?  Thank  you."  And 
opening  it,  she  took  out  a  note  for  £50,  which  her  step-father 
had  paid  her  a  few  days  before,  and  putting  it  in  Mrs.  Dryden's 


218  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

hand,  continued,  "  Will  you  give  this  to  your  husband  ?  And 
now,  Mrs.  Dryden,  you  know  that  it  is  time  that  I  should  leave 
you.  You  have  often  said  that  you  have  a  sister  married  to  a 
farmer  living  in  your  village.  Do  you  think  she  would  receive 
me  as  a  lodger  ?  I  should  like  to  go  to  her  on  leaving  you." 
*  *  *  -.v  *  * 

It  was  that  day  week, — the  following  Monday  morning, — 
Monday  in  Easter  week, — when,  all  the  steps  of  this  somewhat 
difficult  negotiation  being  accomplished,  and  Mrs.  Dryden  hav- 
ing been  solicited  to  accompany  her  guest  upon  the  journey, 
and  having  consented,  propitiated  by  this  invitation  (which 
however,  she  professed  herself  unable  to  accept,  upon  that  princi- 
ple of  supererogatory  self-sacrifice  that  sometimes  obtains) ;  hav- 
ing consented,  I  say,  on  this  consideration,  to  allow  her  husband 
to  be  the  escort  of  their  guest  on  this  occasion,  Amabel  Warner 
left  Foxley  on  her  journey.  A  post-chaise  stood  at  the  door  of 
the  farm-house,  and  Captain  Talbot,  who  had  ridden  over  to 
settle  some  last  matters  of  business,  kissed  his  step-daughter  as 
on  her  wedding  morning,  and  put  her  into  the  carriage.  He 
brought  her  no  blessing  from  her  mother,  who  excused  herself 
from  seeing  her  on  the  ground  that  she  was  ill. 

It  was  a  beautiful  Spring  morning.  The  dewy  buds  and 
blossoms  were  sparkling  in  the  sunlight.  Mrs.  Dryden  had 
loaded  the  carriage  with  syringa,  rosemary,  and  lilac,  white  and 
colored.  Amabel's  effects,  which  had  been  packed  by  her 
mother-in-law,  and  sent  over  to  Foxley,  were  fastened  on  the 
carriage,  and  she  began  the  journey  which  was  to  lead  her 
alone  and  unprotected  into  the  world. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  carriage,  and  "  thought  all  things" 
to  borrow  an  expression  seen  by  a  friend  of  mine  in  the  journal 
of  Laura  Bridgman,  the  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind  girl  of  New 
England. 

As  her  mind  dwelt  upon  her  early  home  in  Malta,  upon  its 
hopes,  its  memories,  and  on  the  scraps  of  the  knowledge  of  life 
that  she  had  lately  gained,  she  said  to  herself,  as  memory  recalled 
some  portion  of  her  early  reading,  and  brought  back  to  her 
mind  a  dispute  she  had  once  had  with  Doctor  Glascock  :  "  One 
is  able,  even  in  this  nineteenth  Christian  century,  to  realize  and 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  219 

sympathize  with  the  old  Greek  superstition  about  the  stern 
decrees  of  an  hereditary  destiny.  When  one  has  done  or  suf- 
fered that  which  no  longer  can  be  cancelled,  when  some  story 
or  some  event  from  which  we  never  can  escape,  will  be  pur- 
suing us  through  life,  and  be  the  shadow  of  our  memory,  one 
is  able  to  picture  in  imagination  the  sorrows  of  an  CEdipus." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Wiser  it  were  to  welcome  and  make  ours 

Whate'er  of  good,  though  small,  the  present  brings — 

Kind  greetings,  sunshine,  song  of  birds,  and  flowers, 

With  a  child's  pure  delight  in  little  things  ; 

And  of  the  griefs  unborn  to  rest  secure, 

Knowing  that  mercy  ever  will  endure. 

R.  C.  TRENCH.— Sonnet. 

ON  the  first  night  they  rested  at  the  little  town  half  way 
between  Colchester  and  London, 'which  was  my  father's  birth- 
place. The  windows  of  the  inn  overlooked  what  had  been  once 
the  residence  of  his  mother.  We  may  wonder,  in  the  spirit  of 
those  biographers  who  put  paragraphs  founded  on  the  premises 
of  imagination  into  their  volumes,  whether  the  spirits  of  the 
place  whispered  to  Amabel  any  presentiment  of  a  love  more 
true  and  tender,  faithful  and  self-sacrificing,  than  any  that  mere 
beauty  ever  won  for  its  possessor. 

They  reached  London  the  day  following.  A  heavy  rain 
having  begun  at  Ingatestone,  Amabel  invited  Farmer  Dryden 
inside  the  carriage.  Their  talk  was  mainly  about  London  and 
its  marvels,  none  of  which  either  of  them  had  seen.  The  far- 
mer's curiosity  was  most  excited  about  the  wild  beasts  at  Exe- 
ter 'Change,  and  the  wonders  of  the  Tower.  Amabel  listened 
with  interest,  smiled,  wondered,  and  brought  all  her  stores  of 
information  to  bear  upon  the  subject  that  was  interesting  to 
her  companion. 

On  reaching  London,  they  put  up  at  a  small  tavern  in  the 
Borough,  where  the  farmer  remembered  to  have  taken  up  his 


220  AMABEL;   A   FAM/LY   HISTORY. 

quarters  on  his  previous  journey  through  the  capital.  Nothing 
could  be  less  inviting  than  the  aspect  of  this  house  of  enter- 
tainment. Amabel  was  frightened  at  the  idea  of  being  left 
alone  in  it,  amongst  drovers  and  bagmen,  and  such  people  as 
put  up  there,  and  entreated  the  farmer  not  to  lose  sight  of 
her  one  moment  while  they  stayed.  The  idea  of  changing  their 
quarters  seems  never  to  have  occurred  to  her.  She  probably 
thought  all  inns  in  London  were  alike.  They  were  to  pass  a  day 
in  town  for  the  purpose  of  consulting  the  physician  most  in 
fashion  on  certain  knotty  points  referred  to  his  experience  by 
the  Doctor  in  C .  On  driving  early  in  the  day  to  his  resi- 
dence, they  found,  however,  that  he  had  been  summoned  to 
the  country,  and  that  no  appointment  could  be  made  with  him 
earlier  than  the  following  morning,  at  half-past  nine. 

As  the  farmer  closed  the  door  of  the-  hackney-coach,  he  said, 
after  a  little  hesitation, — "  Would  you,  my  lady,  be  inclined  to 
go  and  see  the  show  of  beasts  at  Exeter  'Change,  or  the  King's 
crowns  and  jewels  at  the  Tower  ?  This  coachman  says  he 
knows  the  way,  my  lady,  and  can  take  us  straight  there  and 
back,  my  lady,  for  another  hatf-crown,  and  the  charges  he  says 
are  not  great,  about  three  and  sixpence,  or  so." 

"  Oh  no  !"  said  Amabel,  with,  for  the  moment,  something  of 
the  air  of  a  fine  lady ;  "  Indeed,  I'm  quite  unequal  to  any  sights 
of  the  kind.  Don't  let  me  keep  you,  Master  Dryden  ;  I  would 
not  prevent  your  enjoying  yourself,  I  am  sure." 

But  after  the  coach-door  was  closed,  and  the  farmer  was 
mounted  on  the  box,  and  it  was  evident  he  had  no  intention 
of  abandoning  her  to  her  own  society  amongst  strangers,  Ama- 
bel's heart  smote  her.  She  pulled  the  check  and  stopped  the 
carriage. 

"  Master  Dryden,"  she  said,  with  a  flush  upon  her  cheeks, 
"will  you  tell  the  man  to  drive  us  to  Exeter  'Change?  I  have 
changed  my  mind.  I  should  like  to  see  the  wild  animals,  and 
afterwards,  if  I  feel  strong  enough,  we  will  go  on  to  the  Tower." 

I  am  ashamed  to  record  it.  I  blush  over  the  fact,  as  I  set  it 
down.  That  this  woman,  "  the  Divorced,"  "  the  Disowned,"  and 
"  the  Devoted,"  to  borrow  the  titles  of  other  people's  novels, 
crushed  to  the  earth,  as  she  ought  to  have  been,  and  in  a  most 


AMABEt;     A     FAMILY     HISTORY.  221 

painful  and  equivocal  position,  should  set  out  in  a  hackney  coach 
with  an  old  farmer,  to  see  a  wild  beast  show  !  Had  she  gone 
languidly  and  sullenly  through  the  exhibition,  making  it  evi- 
dent to  each  observing  mind,  and  especially  to  her  escort,  that  her 
compliance  with  his  wishes  was  a  noble  sacrifice  of  her  own 
feelings,  and  that  nothing  upon  earth  could  interest  her,  I,  the 
chronicler,  might  have  partially  consoled  myself,  and  have 
restored  her  character  as  a  heroine  in  the  eyes  of  her  friends,  the 
readers  of  these  volumes ;  but  alas !  she  had  never  seen  any  wild 
animals,  and  having  made  the  effort  to  please  another,  she 
rewarded  herself  by  going  with  interest  through  the  exhibition. 
Its  novelty  amused  her.  She  lingered,  without  impatience, 
among  the  dens  of  the  unclean  beasts  as  long  as  the  farmer  wished 
it,  and  fed  the  elephant  with  apples ;  nay,  at  the  Tower,  whither 
they  went  after  having  exhausted  the  larger  menagerie,  she 
took  a  decided  and  especial  interest  in  the  appetite  and  habits 
of  the  boa  constrictor. 

Farmer  Dry  den,  for  years  after,  told  the  marvels  of  that 
exhibition  to  his  children,  and  to  the  children's  children  that 
clustered  around  his  knees. 

There  was  about  her  something  of  the  philosophy  of  those 
citizens  mentioned  by  Herodotus,  who  beguiled  their  seven  years 
of  famine  with  dice  and  play.  She  was  just  the  person  to  wipe 
from  her  eyes  the  salt  of  an  affliction,  and  sit  down  and  tell  a 
merry  story  to  a  child.  I  remember  to  have  heard  her  own 
opinion  on  the  subject.  My  father  once  remarked  to  her  that 
we  should  see 

•'  That  wounded  souls  have  time  to  feel  their  wounds." 

She  answered,  smiling,  "  Very  true.  I  too  can  quote  you 
chapter  and  verse  to  that  effect  from  a  poet  equally  beloved  by 
you  and  me. 

He  that  lacks  time  to  mourn,  lacks  time  to  mend. 

Eternity  mourns  that.     'Tis  an  ill  cure 

For  life's  worst  ills  to  have  no  time  to  feel  them.' 

But,  ask  yourself,  how  many  hours  there  must  be  by  day  and 
by  night  in  which  we  can  retire  to  the  solitary  enjoyment  of 


222  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY 

our  grief,  instead  of  intruding  it  on  hours  when  we  have  it  in 
our  power  to  assuage  the  griefs  of  others,  or  to  assist  their  little 
schemes  of  happiness.  Believe  me,  Theodosius,  there  are  some 
natures  which  get  only  the  more  appetite  for  grief  from  having 
its  indulgence  regulated  and  postponed." 

"  I  am  silenced,"  said  my  father.  "  It  was  certainly  not  a 
nature  like  yours  that  I  was  endeavoring  to  delineate  to-day,  in 
my  new  poem. 

'  Some  men  wear  out  their  impressions.    Time  in  some  makes  deeper  dent ; 
His  was  not  a  granite  nature,  but  a  sandstone  temperament.'  " 

"  Something  depends,"  said  Amabel,  "  upon  the  state  of  our 
health,  and  therefore  a  judicious  care  of  herself  is  one  of  the 
primary  duties  of  a  woman.  There  are  many  sorts  of  excellence 
to  which  a  person  of  deranged  nerves  can  only  aspire.  To 
attain,  he  must  begin  by  devoting  a  year  or  two  of  life  to  his 
permanent  recovery." 

******** 

On  the  day  following,  having  had  a  satisfactory  interview 
with  the  great  West  End  medical  authority,  they  started  on  the 
last  third  of  their  journey.  Their  destination  lay  about  fifty 
miles  to  the  south  west  of  the  metropolis,  and  their  road  ran  for 
some  part  of  the  way  over  Bagshot  Heath,  which,  within  the 
memory  of  my  dear  father,  was  noted  ground  for  highwaymen 
and  footpads.  No  characters  of  that  description,  however, 
troubled  them.  The  day's  journey  was  tedious,  and  the  effect 
of  the  wide  expanse  of  uninterrupted  heath  country  depressing. 
It  requires  some  residence  in  this  Arabia  Petrea  of  Old  England, 
before  we  can  rejoice  in  the  freedom  of  its  moorlands,  and  glory 
in  a  sense  of  solitude  and  space,  as  we  measure  these  wild 
unvaried  wastes  with  "  our  own  compasses,"  or  shake  exultingly 
the  bridles  of  our  horses,  as  we  snuff'the  air  untainted  by  any 
previous  transit  through  other  human  lungs.  Amabel  knew 
these  pleasures  later  in  her  life ;  but  on  a  first  approach,  the  bare 
brown  heath,  without  a  tree,  without  inclosure,  and  almost 
without  habitation,  painfully  affects  the  stranger. 

She  would  have  given  worlds  for  any  sign  of  spring,  some 
budding  verdure.  But  when  at  last  they  turned  off  from  the 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  223 

heath,  and  found  themselves  in  a  more  luxuriant  country,  she 
almost  wished  herself  back  upon  the  smooth  open  roads  of  the 
moors. 

A  heavy  rain  had  lately  fallen  in  the  district ;  and  while  the 
moistened  earth  sent  up  to  heaven  an  incense  of  fresh  odors, 
and  ten  thousand  blossoms,  grateful  to  the  eye,  clothed  every 
bank  and  crevice  with  their  beauty,  the  roads,  alternate  mud 
and  rock,  were  pretty  nearly  impassable. 

After  some  terrible  jolting,  on  putting  her  head  out  of  the 
carriage-window  to  ask  the  farmer  what  made  the  way  so  bad, 
he  answered,  to  her  astonishment,  he  supposed  it  was  the  rag. 

"  Rag  ?"  said  Amabel,  looking  round  her ;  and  she  was  then 
informed  that  this  term  was  applied  by  the  people  to  the  rough 
ragged  free-stone  of  the  district.  They  were  passing,  it  appeared 
to  her,  through  a  sort  of  broken  tunnel.  The  road  was  as 
rough  as  the  bed  of  a  Swiss  watercourse.  The  way  had  been 
worn  as  by  the  action  of  water,  during  the  lapse  of  many  years, 
from  ten  to  sixteen  feet  below  the  level  of  the  fields.  Its  steep 
sides  were  now  covered  with  every  variety  of  fern  and  wild 
flower.  Tall  trees  nodded  their  heads  together  at  the  top  from 
ridge  to  ridge,  while  their  long  tangled  roots,  washed  bare  of 
earth,  were  the  natural  trellis  around  which  wound  unculti- 
vated creepers.  Foxes,  and  rats,  and  stoats,  and  harvest  mice, 
had  burrowed  in  the  gravel.  On  every  branch  of  every  tree  a 
bird  shook  music  from  its  tiny  throat.  To  some  natures,  no- 
thing is  more  depressing  than  the  influences  of  Spring.  All  is  so 
gay,  so  blithe,  so  full  of  renovation.  Their  souls  seem  out  of 
tune  with  so  much  gladness.  They  are  set  too  low  for  the  con- 
cert pitch  of  nature.  Amabel  felt  this ;  and  the  beauty  of  the 
cultivated  earth  was  even  less  in  harmony  with  her  spirit  than 
the  bare  bleakness  of  the  moorland.  Her  heart  died  within ' 
her.  All  without  was  full  of  promise,  glad  in  hope,  harmo- 
nious in  beauty ;  within  there  was  neither  hope  nor  promise. 
Her  changing  cheek,  her  troubled  eye,  her  nervous  agitation, 
told  of  her  consciousness  of  many  faults,  and  of  her  sense  of  her 
position. 

As  they  wound  into  the  village,  they  had  one  or  two  noble  views 
of  the  surrounding  country.  The  village  itself  lay  at  the  foot 


224  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

of  a  very  remarkable  hill,  rising  so  steeply  from  the  plain  that 
the  close,  wild,  tangled  wood  that  clothed  its  sides  was  called, 
by  the  country  people,  the  Hanger.  The  summit  was  long 
used  as  a  race  ground  and  a  sheep-walk :  and  to  any  one  who 
approaches  it  only  from  the  village,  it  is  a  matter  of  amazement 
how  horses  are  got  up  there.  The  village  itself  lay  under  the 
hill,  sheltered  from  the  west  winds,  which,  in  winter,  sweep  the 
moorland.  There  were  no  gentlemen's  houses  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  laborers'  cottages  were  mostly  built  of  stone, 
but  thatched.  The  trees  of  the  district  were  singular  for  size 
and  beauty.  There  was  but  one  long  straggling  street,  chiefly 
composed  of  cottages.  They  drove  along  this  street  to  the  vil- 
lage green.  Every  child  of  the  place  turned  out  as  the  chaise 
passed,  to  witness  the  unusual  apparition.  The  men  wore  green 
smock  frocks  curiously  ornamented  with  cunning  work.  The 
women  on  Sundays  had  red  jcloaks  and  hoods,  which  disap- 
peared upon  a  week  day.  At  one  corner  of  the  green  stood  the 
lone  tavern  of  the  village.  Thither  the  fanners  came  to  drink 
a  cup ;  and  there,  too,  could  be  read,  though  often  a  week  old, 
the  village  number  of  the  county  paper.  Guests  rarely  lodged 
there  even  for  a  night.  There  was  no  thoroughfare  through 
the  village.  Once  in  a  great  while  only  it  entertained  strangers, 

when   Sir  John  C 's  hounds  met  in  the   neighborhood, 

and  the  spare  room  once  or  twice  a  year  might  lodge  a  wan- 
dering pedlar. 

Every  one  supposed  the  chaise  was  going  to  the  vicarage ; 
and  when  it  drew  up  at  the  Royal  Stag  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  green,  great  was  the  astonishment  of  the  villagers. 

The  landlady  could  hardly  promise  to  make  the  lady  com- 
fortable for  the  night ;  but,  meantime,  she  showed  her  into  the 
best  parlor,  and  advised  Farmer  Dryden  to  go  and  see  whether 
his  sister-in-law,  Hinde,  might  be  expecting  them. 

Amabel  stood  at  the  casement,  looking  out  on  the  still  even- 
ing. Before  her  stood  the  parsonage, — a  quaint,  grey  house, 
with  a  high  slated  roof,  built  in  Queen  Anne's  time.  No  flow- 
ers were  trained  up  its  front ;  but  a  small  grass  yard,  with  four 
tall  poplars,  separated  it  from  the  green.  The  entrance  to  the 
yard  was  by  a  tall,  slender,  rusted  iron  gate,  and  a  paved  walk 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTOBT.  225 

led  up  to  the  door.  On  the  left  of  the  vicarage  was  the  church, 
of  some  antiquity,  with  a  low,  grey,  square  tower,  where  the 
swallows  built  their  nests  under  the  ivy,  and  raised  their  broods 
of  young.  Around  it  slept  the  dead  of  the  parish.  There 
were  few  tombstones ;  but,  marking  the  character  of  the  place, 
stood  two  enormous  yews.  Amabel  looked  at  the  house  ap- 
pointed for  all  living,  and  a  murmur  arose  in  her  heart ; — she 
wished  she  lay  there  too. 

She  saw  the  farmer  cross  the  green  ;  and  at  the  moment  that 
he  did  so  the  door  of  the  vicarage  flew  open.  Out  of  the  iron 
gate  rushed  a  group  of  laughing  children,  making  the  solemn 
neighborhood  glad  with  their  merry  voices.  Behind  them  came 
the  father  and  the  mother.  The  latter  a  delicate  and  pretty 
woman ;  the  husband  not  robust,  with  a  pale  student  face,  the 
air  of  a  born  gentleman,  mild  and  expressive  features,  but  sandy, 
not  to  say  red  hair.  The  children  paused  in  their  gambols  as 
they  saw  the  farmer  approaching  them ;  and,  drawing  back  be- 
hind their  parents,  became  at  once  shy,  silent,  and  demure.  The 
vicar  recognised  the  farmer,  and  advanced  with  his  hand 
extended  towards  him.  Then  he  introduced  him  to  his  wife, 
and  named  the  children.  He  seemed  to  be  asking  the  farmer 
what  had  brought  him  from  home.  Once  or  twice  they  pointed 
to  the  post-chaise  at  the  inn-door.  Then  Farmer  Dryden  drew 
the  vicar  from  the  group,  and  walked  apart  with  him.  Amabel 
knew  what  they  were  saying,  and  all  her  feelings  rushed  into 
her  cheeks  as  she  thought  that  even  her  history  was  not  con- 
sidered such  as  Farmer  Dryden  thought  it  Jit  to  name  before 
the  pure  and  gentle  wife  of  his  respected  pastor.  After  a  con- 
versation of  some  moments,  they  returned.  The  Vicar  spoke  to 
his  wife ;  she  nodded,  gathered  the  children  reund  her,  and 
retired  into  the  house.  The  farmer  went  his  way,  and  the  Vicar 
crossed  the  green.  She  saw  him  coming  towards  the  inn ;  she 
heard  his  roiee  below.  She  heard  him  say  to  the  landlady,  "  Is 
she  up  stairs  \  Don't  announce  me.  I  will  go  up  alone." 
In  a  moment  more  she  heard  a  rap  at  the  door.  It  was  opened 
gently,  and  he  entered. 

"  I  am  the  clergyman  of  the  place,"  he  said,  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

10* 


226  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY, 

She  advanced  to  meet  him,  and  put  her  hand  in  his.  She 
was  weak  from  illness,  wearied  with  long  travelling,  depressed, 
and  yet  excited.  She  put  her  hand  in  his,  and  burst  into  tears. 
The  Vicar  placed  her  in  a  chair,  stood  by  her  a  few  moments, 
and  then  said  kindly,  "  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Hinde, 
contrary  to  my  advice,  has  insisted  on  fresh  painting  a  room 
for  you.  She  did  not  expect  you  so  soon,  and  it  is  not  ready. 
Indeed,  I  think  that  it  would  be  hardly  safe  to  sleep  there  for 
a  week  or  two.  Meantime,  my  wife  authorizes  me  to  say  she 
has  a  room  at  your  disposal.  This  inn,  I  think,  is  hardly  a 
place  for  you." 

Amabel  wept  more  than  ever  during  this  address ;  it  was 
some  minutes  before  she  could  answer  him ;  then  she  said,  "  For- 
give me,  sir, — excuse  me.  I  am  not  so  foolish  always.  I  am 
tired  and  weak  now."  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  said,  covering 
her  face  with  both  her  hands,  "  You  are  very  good  to  invite  me, 
but — but — did  Master  Dryden  tell  your  wife  why  I  have  come 
here  ?  Did  he  tell  you  about  me  ?" 

It  was  now  the  Vicar's  turn  for  embarrassment. 

"  Yes,  he  told  me,"  said  he.  "  He  told  me  too,  that  you  had 
been  some  weeks  under  his  roof.  That  his  wife  liked  you. 
That  he  believed  you  penitent, — unhappy.  We  are  not  prudent 
people  in  the  world's  sense.  My  wife  will  do  anything  she  can 
for  you." 

"  Oh  !  sir,  indeed,"  cried  Amabel, "  I  have  been  wrong  enough, 
weak  enough,  bad  enough,  but  not  so  wrong.  There  are  times, 
and  to-day  is  one,  when  I  feel  my  punishment  disproportioned 
to  my  fault — greater  than  I  can  bear." 

"  We  must  wait,"  said  the  Vicar,  solemnly.  "  We  must  wait 
and  see  the  end,  both  of  God's  judgments,  and  of  his  forbear- 
ings.  Sometimes  the  discipline  that  he  provides  is  necessary 
for  the  formation  of  the  Christian  character ;  sometimes  for  the 
nurture  and  encouragement  of  other  Christian  souls.  Often- 
times it  is  sent  in  mercy,  to  bring  us  to  himself;  and  he  not  sel- 
dom most  afflicts  his  chosen,  because  through  their  submission 
to  his  will,  he  gets  most  honor  to  his  holy  name." 

"  May  I  tell  you  my  history  T'  she  said.  "  I  may  not  tell  you 
iny  real  name,  but  I  may  give  you  the  particulars  of  my  life,  if 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  227 

you  will  promise  not  to  divulge  them.  I  need  some  help  to 
judge  of  my  own  conduct ;  some  one  to  appeal  to.  But  I 
have  not  one  friend,  sir,  left,  in  all  this  wide,  wide  world." 

The  Vicar  drew  a  chair  and  sat  opposite  to  her,  in  silence, 
while  she  gave  him  the  outline  of  her  story.  When  she  had 
done,  he  said,  "  Then  the  error  of  your  life  has  been  the  want 
of  love.  Love  to  God,  and  love  to  men  ;  those  two  contain  all, 
and  the  former  of  the  two  contains  the  latter,"  said  the  Vicar, 
quoting  unconsciously  from  his  favorite  author,  '  Love  to  God 
is  the  only  due  principle  and  spring  of  all  due  love  to  man,  and 
all  love  that  begins  there,  returns  there  likewise,  and  ends 
there.' " 

"  But,"  said  Amabel,  a  little  hurt  that  the  fact  that  she  had 
most  endeavored  to  impress  upon  her  hearer  was  overlooked  and 
unacknowledged.  "  I  loved,  ....  I  do  most  truly  love  my 
husband." 

"  And  the  fruits  of  that  love  ?"  said  the  Vicar.  "  We  do  not 
recognise  any  emotion  but  by  its  fruits.  They  do  not  appear, 
I  think,  iu  your  narration.  Love,"  he  continued,  "  is  an  active 
principle.  Self  is  the  enemy  it  combats. — In  other  words,  its 
hostile,  its  antagonistic  principle." 

"  I  am  not  selfish,"  said  Amabel.  "  My  early  attachment  was 
true,  steadfast,  and  sincere ;  and,  I  repeat,  I  love  my  husband." 

"  I  do  not  believe  your  disposition  selfish,  and  for  that  thank 
God,"  replied  the  Vicar.  "  It  is  one  obstacle  the  less  upon  your 
path  to  Heaven.  But  was  there  not  a  prevalence  of  self 
throughout  your  married  life  in  your  distempered  moods  of 
feeling,  gloom,  despondency,  inditference,  and  other  reactions 
of  disappointed  desire  1  There  are  natures  so  barren  that  they 
hardly  receive  from  others'  love  the  germ  of  an  attachment. 
Such  I  do  not  think  can  be  the  case  with  you.  But  have  you 
taken  the  initiative  in  love  ?  The  highest  effort  of  a  merely 
human  love  our  Lord  himself  has  pointed  out  when  he  says 
'  For  if  you  love  them  that  love  you,  what  thank  have  ye  ?  for 
sinners  also  love  those  that  love  them.' " 

"  I  hardly  understand  you,"  she  replied.  "  Is  love  never 
given  where  it  is  not  returned  ?" 

"  Observe  me,"  said  the  Vicar.     "  I  speak  of  love  the  princi- 


228  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

pie,  not  love  the  passion.  If  you  know  love  only  as  a  passion, 
I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Only  this.  The  passion  never 
lasts  without  the  principle.  It  will  not  stand  the  wear  and 
tear  of  married  life,  nor  the  cooling,  on  the  other  side,  of  conju- 
gal attachment." 

After  a  pause,  she  added,  "I  am  so  young  to  live  a  lifetime 
unloving  and  unloved." 

"  Unloving  and  unloved  !"  repeated  the  Vicar.  "  What  human 
soul  does  that?  Does  the  Almighty  place  His  birds,  His 
beasts,  or  even  His  inanimate  creation,  where  no  nourishment 
for  life  can  be  obtained  ?  And  is  not  love  the  life  of  the  soul  ? 
H&ve  we  not  God's  love  to  us  on  the  one  part,  and  His  per- 
mission, His  command,  having  freely  received,  freely  to  extend 
that  love  to  others  ?  You  may  learn  wisdom  from  the  plants 
of  the  heath,  from  the  trees  that  spread  out  their  broad  roots 
over  the  freestone  rocks  of  our  wood  yonder.  My  poor  lady, 
God  purposes  that  each  of  us  should  have  his  full  development, 
should  coine  to  the  full  measure  of  his  stature,  and  each  is 
happy  or  is  miserable  in  proportion  as  this  development  is 
attained.  No  one  has  the  opportunity  of  this  development 
denied  him.  A  woman's  development,  especially,  comes  through 
the  exercise  of  the  affections.  I  grant  that  to  some  women  this 
development  seems  more  difficult  than  to  others,  because  the 
natural  channels  for  the  outgoings  and  the  inpourings  of  a 
loving  interest  seem  closed.  I  grant  that  your  position  is  dif- 
ficult and  exceptional.  So  is  that  of  the  Old  Maid.  So  was 
Milton's.  Does  God  exact  day  labor,  light  denied  ?  We  must 
gather  stubble  for  our  brick,  nor  ininish  aught  of  our  daily 
tasks  where  straw  is  withheld.  Take  a  lesson  from  this  little 
prisoner,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  landlady's  bulfinch,  which 
hung  above  them  in  its  painted  cage.  "  It  draws  its  water  with 
a  bucket.  Water  is  necessary  for  its  life,  and  it  obtains  it, 
though  in  an  exceptional,  unnatural  way." 

"  This  is  a  hard  saying,"  said  Amabel. 

"  It  is  indeed,"  replied  the  Vicar.  "  It  is  almost  the  great  pro- 
blem of  life  to  us — the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  It  needs  all  our  faith  to  unravel  it,  arid  every  holy  aid." 

"  And,  yet,"  said  Amabel,  "  the  people  I  have  met  who  said 


AMABEL;   A    FAMILV   HISTORY.  229 

they  were  the  most  religious,  have  been,  uot  unfrequently,  the 
least  loveable  and  charitable  of  all  that  I  have  known." 

The  Vicar  sighed.  "  There  are  some  natures,"  he  said, 
"  which,  having  received  the  milk  of  the  word,  seem  indeed 
to  turn  it  sour.  But  the  world  has  no  right  to  throw  the 
blaine  of  our  failings  back  on  Christianity.  While  there 
exists  a  perfect  type  of  Christianity  incarnate,  you  have  no 
right  to  judge  it  by  stunted,  misshapen,  undeveloped  speci- 
mens. God  commanded  love,  but  His  creatures  could  not 
obey  Him.  It  required  a  practical  manifestation  of  love  in  their 
own  nature  and  personally  towards  themselves,  to  teach  them 
even  the  true  nature  of  love." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Et  la  mere  faisaut  un  effort  pour  elever  la  voix.  Ma  fille,  dit  elle,  le  bonheur  ii'est 
pas  de  posseder  beaucoup,  mais  d'esperer  et  d'aimer  beaucoup.  Notre  esperance 
n'est  pas  ici-bas  ni  notre  bonheur  non  plus,  ou  s'il  y  est  ce  n'est  qu'en  passant. 

LA  MENNAIS.     Paroles  d'un  Croyant. 

WHILE  Amabel  and  the  Vicar  were  discoursing  thus,  the 
Vicar's  wife  was  making  preparations  for  her  guest's  reception. 
When  all  was  ready  she  sent  one  of  the  children  over  to  her 
husband ;  and  the  Vicar,  giving  his  arm  to  Amabel,  conducted 
her  across  the  Green.  The  room  made  ready  for  her  use 
was  a  quiet  upper  chamber,  looking  over  a  large  kitchen  gar- 
den, whose  straight  walks  were  bordered  with  box  and  flow- 
ers. 

After  an  early  tea,  %he  family  met  for  evening  prayer.  It 
was  no  dull,  dry  ceremony,  like  the  offering  of  family  devotion 
under  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Warner  ;  but,  the  object  of  the  Vicar  not 
being  the  mere  respectable  performance  of  a  reputable  duty,  but 
the  praise  and  worship  of  Almighty  God,  and  the  awakening 
of  devotional  feeling  in  the  two  or  three  that  were  gathered 
together,  pains  were  taken  to  engage  the  attention  and  the 


230  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

interest  of  the  youngest  and  the  most  ignorant  of  the  little  con- 
gregation. 

The  Vicar  possessed  the  accomplishment  most  rare  in  his 
profession.  He  was  a  good  reader.  Indeed,  to  read  the  Bible 
well,  is  the  highest  test  of  taste  in  elocution.  He  read,  without 
clipping  the  sacred  narrative  into  verses  ;  and  his  beautiful  read- 
ing did  more  than  any  commentary  (though  he  offered  a  few 
simple  remarks  in  explanation  of  the  chapter,)  to  make  its 
meaning  clear.  The  interest  and  attention  of  his  auditors  were 
kindled  by  his  own.  When  prayers  were  over,  Amabel  went 
to  her  own  chamber  ;  and  when  she  again  left  it,  found  the  busi- 
ness of  the  morning  some  hours  on  its  way.  She  found  the 
Vicar's  wife  teaching  her  little  girls,  and  busy,  while  they  said 
their  lessons,  in  cutting  out  some  garments  for  the  poor.  Amabel 
asked  her  for  some  needlework,  which  being  given  to  her,  occu- 
pied her  hands  till  the  Vicar's  wife,  preparing  for  a  walk,  asked  if 
she  would  like  to  go  to  the  village  school  with  her.  At  the  school, 
the  lady  of  the  Parish  had  her  attention  called  in  many  different 
directions,  and  Amabel  soon  tired  of  standing  before  the 
school-dame's  desk,  looking  at  the  little  chubby  faces  that  lined 
the  cold,  white  walls. 

The  Vicar's  wife  was  a  good  woman,  and  kind,  in  all  respects 
to  Amabel,  but  her  mind  was  taken  up  by  many  local  cares,  and 
she  was  by  no  means  a  person  of  extended  sympathies.  She 
felt  rather  afraid  of  her  guest ;  afraid  of  the  superior  know- 
ledge of  this  wicked  world,  which  she  attributed  to  her ; 
afraid  of  having  her  own  feelings  shocked  in  such  society,  or 
of  wounding  those  of  Amabel.  Very  little  communication  ever 
ensued  between  them.  The  Vicar's  wife,  when  her  husband 
told  her  of  Amabel's  version  of  her  history,  said  merely,  "  Well, 
dear,  I  suppose  she  would  say  so."  A  sentence  which  contained 
much  more  meaning  than  was  apparenf  in  the  words. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  Amabel  got  tired  at  the  school,  and 
pleading  her  recent  illness  as  an  excuse  for  her  departure, 
found  her  way  back  into  the  house,  and  into  the  Vicar's  study. 
There  lay  on  the  table  a  large  volume  opened.  The  Vicar  had 
been  consulting  it  with  reference  to  his  late  conversation  with 
her.  It  was  Leighton's  Commentary  upon  St.  Peter.  The  part 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  231 

on  the  third  chapter  was  open,  on  the  mutual  duties  of  hus- 
bands and  wives.  Amabel  hung  over  the  book,  and  read  it 
eagerly.  Her  tears  were  dropping  fast  upon  its  leaves,  when 
the  Vicar  entered  the  room. 

"  May  I  borrow  this  book  ?"  she  said  to  him. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  answered,  putting  it  into  her  hands,  which 
he  held  clasped  in  his  a  moment,  as  he  said  solemnly  :  "  I  pray 
God  that  He  will  bless  it  to  you.  Archbishop  Leighton  is  my 
favorite  author.  His  writings  breathe  the  spirit  of  his  life ;  his 
life  was  the  illustration  of  his  writings." 

Amabel  took  away  the  volume ;  and  the  Vicar  prayed  for  its 
influence  upon  her  heart,  as  she  read  it  alone  in  the  still,  small 
hours  of  the  night,  or  in  the  woods  and  fields,  or  on  the  heath, 
alone  with  God  and  nature. 

The  book  of  nature  was,  she  found,  the  largest  and  oldest 
edition  of  the  Bible.  Henceforth,  like  its  great  antitype,  she 
read  it  understandingly. 

As  the  spirit  of  God  moved  through  the  void  upon  the 
waters,  so,,  the  spirit  of  God  now  brooded  over  her  heart,  and 
there  came  the  first  faint  dawnings  of  a  new  light  in  her  soul. 
She  held  little  personal  communication  with  the  Vicar,  but  she 
was  punctual  and  eager  in  her  attendance  at  his  church,  and 
after  her  heart  was  lifted  up  to  God  in  the  church  service,  her 
understanding  hung  upon  his  sermons.  The  doctrines  that  he 
taught,  at  first  so  strange  and  new,  became,  by  degrees,  clear  to 
her. 

'It  is  not  our  place  nor  our  intention  to  tell  the  reader  what 
passed  in  her  soul  during  these  hours,  for,  with  her  mind  in  full 
activity,  she  sought  no  companionship,  and,  indeed,  accepted 
none.  We  have  exhibited  her  character  as  it  was  formed  under 
the  happy  influences  of  her  early  life ;  we  have  shown  how  it 
became  deteriorated  by  Influences  less  genial;  and  yet,  how  tra- 
ces of  its  native  sweetness  lingered  with  her  throughout.  It 
was  about  to  undergo  a  renovating  influence ;  but  it  is  not  our 
province  to  show  the  process,  we  have  only  to  exhibit  its  fruits. 

Man  was  driven  forth  from  Paradise,  lest  he  should  take  also 
of  the  tree  of  life,  and  eat  and  live  for  ever.  The  evil  poison 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge  circulated  in  his  veins,  and  was 


232  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY. 

inherited  by  his  posterity ;  but  the  thirst  after  the  knowledge  of 
good,  that  antagonist  principle,  which,  more  or  less  enlightened, 
has  been  at  work  since  the  day  of  Eve's  transgression,  he 
brought  with  him  from  Eden.  Man's  aspirations  have  been 
always  better,  higher  than  himself.  Conscience  awoke  in  her. 
Conscience,  the  stirrings  of  the  will  of  God.  It  stood  like  the 
messenger  of  the  Lord  to  Balaam,  warning  her  from  further  pro- 
gress in  an  evil  path ;  and  as  she  stretched  out  her  hands  for 
succor,  the  God  of  Mercy  drew  her  to  himself.  She  judged 
herself  more  harshly,  perhaps  more  truly,  than  we,  who,  judging 
only  the  external  life,  pronounce  that  she  was  scarcely  blame- 
worthy. 

*  *  „  *  *  *  * 

Time  passed.  One  day,  the  Vicar  went  to  visit  her  at  Mrs. 
Hinde's  house,  to  which  she  had  long  before  removed.  For 
some  days,  he  had  had  no  news  of  her,  and  he  took  the  path 
that  led  him  through  the  woods,  because  he  thought  he  might 
meet  her  in  her  haunts.  She  was  not  there.  A  stupid  servant, 
under  a  vague  impression  that  he  was  come  to  read  the  service 
for  the  visitation  of  the  sick,  admitted  him  without  question 
into  her  chamber.  She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  infant, 
some  few  hours  old,  clasped  closely  in  her  arms ;  and  as  she  saw 
him,  her  face  was  lighted  with  a  glow  such  as  he  never  yet  had 
seen  there.  She  half  presented  him  the  child,  and  cried,  "  I 
shall  not  die,  but  live,  and  declare  the  works  of  the  Lord." 
****** 

I  hardly  feel  myself  competent  to  touch  upon  this  portion  of 
her  history.  To  every  unmarried  woman  there  is  something 
solemnly  mysterious  in  motherhood,  and  only  from  the  yearn- 
ings of  our  own  hearts  towards  little  children,  can  we  guess  the 
brooding  tenderness  of  a  mother's  love. 

Amabel's  affection  for  her  boy  was  Her  one  tie  to  existence. 
They  tell  me  there  is  rarely  born  a  more  puny,  weakly,  mise- 
rable babe;  yet  such  as  it  was,  its  mother's  life  seemed  bound 
up  in  its  own.  A  tender  light  softened  her  eyes  when  she 
looked  upon  its  face.  It  became  her  one  thought  and  her  one 
dream.  Her  affection  for  her  son  was  passion.  In  him  her 
own  existence  was  renewed,  free  from  the  blight  that  had  over- 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  233 

taken  it.  She  dreamed  dreams  of  the  future  for  her  boy,  visions 
of  future  happiness,  distinction,  honor,  and  reward.  Sometimes 
she  fancied  him,  under  an  assumed  name,  the  hero  of  a  naval 
victor)*,  saving  the  life  of  his  own  father,  and  being  triumph- 
antly, joyfully,  repentantly  acknowledged  his  son.  And  then, 
in  the  midst  of  her  excitement  and  exultation,  would  come  the 
bitter  thought  that  through  her  fault  all  the  advantages  of  a 
father's  name,  a  father's  love,  a  father's  influence,  must  be 
denied  to  him.  Even  her  inexperience  told  her  how  much  he 
might  reproach  her  for  the  trials  he  would  meet,  if  hoarding  all 
her  wealth  for  his  advancement,  she  sent  him  into  the  world 
in  an  anomalous  position.  Yes,  for  her  boy's  sake  she  could 
brave  the  displeasure  of  his  father,  she  could  conquer  all  the 
suggestions  of  pride,  of  anger,  and  of  wounded  feeling,  which, 
in  the  intervals  of  her  self-reproach,  made  themselves  heard. 
For  her  son's  sake  she  could  implore  a  forgiveness,  which  for 
herself  were  impossible.  For  his  sake  she  would  write  a  letter 
to  her  husband. 

With  many  tears  and  many  prayers,  and  with  that  sort  of 
timid,  morbid  conscientiousness  which  takes  undeserved  blame 
sooner  than  it  will  accord  it  when  due,  she  wrote  to  Captain 
Warner  the  letter  from  which  I  have  filled  up  my  own  outline 
knowledge  of  this  narrative.  I  wish  I  could  have  given  it 
entire,  but  this  I  had  no  right  to  do.  It  would  have  worked 
upon  the  reader's  feelings  by  the  mournful,  lingering  tender- 
ness with  which,  in  some  places,  she  dwells  on  the  brief  hopes 
of  her  married  life,  on  her  growing  appreciation  of  her  hus- 
band, on  all  the  signs  and  tokens  that  she  cherished  of  his  love. 
At  times,  she  seems  to  have  done  violence  to  the  warmer  im- 
pulses of  her  own  heart,  striving  to  take  a  tone  of  dignified 
impartiality,  to  state  facts  without  drawing  inferences ;  and  after 
a  few  such  paragraphs,  the  bitterness  of  a  reproachful  con- 
science pierces  the  coldness  she  assumes ;  or  as  her  eyes,  per- 
haps, rested  on  her  baby's  face,  she  breaks  forth  into  tender 
beseechings  for  forgiveness — into  protestations  of  fidelity. 

She  wrote  her  letter  when  still  weak  from  recent  suffering ; 
at  that  period  of  her  convalescence,  when  under  happier  cir- 
cumstances, a  proud  and  loving  husband  would  have  taken  her 


23-4  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

light  form  in  his  strong  arms,  and  have  carried  her  for  the  first 
time  beyond  her  chamber  ;  when  friends  and  gossips,  greeting 
her  reappearance,  would  have  been  offering  congratulations, 
and  delighting  her  assenting  heart  by  admiration  of  her  babe, 
when  all  would  have  found  some  trace  of  the  father  in  its  face, 
and  when  that  father,  proud  of  the  name,  joyful,  generous, 
loving  as  he  was,  would,  in  the  full  contentment  of  a  happy 
heart,  have  given  back  to  her,  in  her  new  relation,  all  that  she 
had  forfeited. 

She  wrote  this  letter  to  her  husband  sitting  night  after 
night  by  the  peat  embers,  in  spite  of  all  remonstrance,  alone  by 
the  cradle  of  her  child ;  the  guardian  of  its  troubled  sleep ;  lull- 
ing it  from  time  to  time  with  words  and  looks  expressive  of  a 
more  tender,  passionate  affection  than  any  that  when  hired 
women  watched  her  she  ventured  to  employ  ;  repeating  over 
and  over  again,  in  its  unconscious  ear,  the  name  of  Leonard 
Warner — Leonard  Warner — Leonard  Warner. 

She  had  got  a  habit  of  repeating  that  name  in  half-tones, 
over  and  over,  unconsciously,  when  no  one  else  was  near.  And 
thus  this  letter  drew  in  part  its  inspiration.  She  poured  into 
it  all  the  feelings  of  her  heart,  nor  knew  how  much  of  all  she 
felt  and  there  expressed,  owed  its  existence  to  the  love  that  in 
the  hour  of  her  loss  she  first  acknowledged  to  the  father,  how 
much  to  her  passionate  affection  for  the  child. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  one  night  when  she  finished  the  last, 
the  strongest,  the  tenderest  appeal  in  all  the  letter.  She  folded 
it,  she  unfolded  it,  looked  again  and  again  at  the  lines  that  would 
first  meet  his  eye,  and  tried  to  imagine  the  sensations  it  would 
excite  when  he  first  opened  it.  Then  timidly,  with  blushes,  and 
with  a  quick  beating  at  her  heart, — as  a  young  girl  pressing  for 
the  first  time  her  lips  on  the  handwriting  of  her  lover  is  startled 
by  the  voice  of  her  own  modesty — she  pressed  a  kiss  upon  its 
pages,  and  then  again,  again  upon  its  words,  upon  its  seal, 
wherever  it  seemed  to  her  his  fiugers  perhaps  might  rest  upon 
her  kisses.  She  pressed  it  to  her  baby's  lips,  she  strained  it  to 
her  heart,  she  kept  it  safe  from  her  own  tears,  she  breathed 
prayers  over  it,  and  then  laying  it  sealed  and  folded  before  her 
on  the  desk,  she  added  the  direction,  to 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  235 

CAPTAIN  LEONARD  WARNER,  R.  N. 

H.  M.  S.  Magician, 

inclosing  it  in  an  outer  envelope,  directed  to  Mrs.  Warner. 

And  this  letter,  over  which  so  much  emotion  had  been  spent, 
did  not  reach  its  destination.  In  brief  (for  I  have  no  taste 
nor  skill  for  making  mysteries,  and  am  recording  the  simplest 
and  most  probable  of  contingencies),  it  ought  to  have  been 
directed  as  all  letters  are  for  officers  or  men  at  sea,  to  her  hus- 
band's agent  or  to  the  Admiralty.  When  old  Mrs.  Warner, 
who  was  prejudiced  like  every  English  man  and  woman  of  well 
regulated  mind  during  the  old  franking  days  against  extrava- 
gance in  postage,  received  this  bulky  envelope,  she  thought  it 
would  be  a  pity  to  send  her  son  at  great  expense  a  letter  which 
she  was  sure  would  be  unwelcome.  She  was  too  strictly  prin- 
cipled to  suppress  a  letter.  She  wrote  to  Captain  Warner  tell- 
ing him  that  she  had  received  a  very  heavy  package  from  his 
wife  ;  should  she  forward  it  to  him  ? 

This  letter  reached  him  at  an  unpropitious  moment,  when 
worried  by  some  business  connected  with  a  court-martial.  He 
answered  it  immediately  in  the  negative.  He  wished,  he  said, 
for  no  communication  from  his  wife.  There  could  be  no 
necessity  for  such  communication,  as  he  had  liberally  provided 
for  her. 

Old  Mr.-.  Warner  had  anticipated  such  an  answer,  but  per- 
haps her  son  afterwards  regretted  it,  when  softer  thoughts  of 
his  young  wife  rose  in  his  heart  as  he  paced  the  quarter- 
deck during  the  night  watches ;  yet  even  at  such  moments 
the  image  of  Amabel  appeared  before  him,  not  desolate, 
sad-hearted,  and  repentant,  but  glad  to  have  regained  her 
liberty,  satisfied  with  her  new  position,  undomestic  in  her 
ways. 

Sometimes,  when  he  fancied  the  attentions  of  other  men 
insulting  her,  he  grew  frantic.  He  cursed  his  evil  fate  in 
having  married  her,  his  worse  fate  in  having  left  her;  and 
resolved,  as  soon  as  professional  honor  would  permit,  to  return 
and  seek  news  of  her.  He  would  watch  her  from  a  distance, 


236  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

never  see  her,  never  forgive  her,  never  hold  any  communica- 
tion with  her,  but  no  man  should  insult  her  with  impunity  ; 
no  man  should  presume  to  think  her  unprotected. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

Shall  my  soul  stoop,  her  new  found  prize  forget, 
And  yield  her  courage  to  a  vain  regret  ? 

Miss  C.  MACBEADY.    MSS. 

I  REMARKED  in  the  last  chapter  that  Captain  Warner  had  been 
worried  by  the  proceedings  of  a  court-martial,  which  court- 
martial,  so  soon  as  Buonaparte  had  been  disposed  of,  he  request- 
ed on  his  own  conduct,  in  relation  to  the  abduction  of  a  French 
prisoner ;  Colonel  Guiscard  having  laid  his  version  of  the  tale 
before  the  Admiralty.  It  was  a  bore  to  my  Lords  Commis- 
sioners, who  could  willingly  have  dispensed  with  any  such  pro- 
ceeding, having  plenty  of  more  important  business  on  their 
hands  ;  but  as  Captain  Warner  demanded  investigation,  a  court 
of  inquiry  was  held  at  Malta,  which  resulted  in  acquittal.  How 
far  it  may  have  thrown  light  upon  the  dark  portions  of  Felix 
Guiscard's  history  I  cannot  tell,  never  having  seen  any  report 
of  the  proceedings.  Indeed,  "our  own  correspondent"  in  the 
morning  papers,  confined  himself  in  that  day  to  very  limited 
accounts  of  mere  matters  of  local  interest. 

The  few  lines  devoted  to  the  subject  ended  to  the  effect  that 
"  the  humane  and  gallant  Captain,  having  received  publicly  the 
commendations  of  his  superior  officers  for  his  conduct  in  the 
fleet  since  the  late  commencement  of  hostilities,  was  triumph- 
antly exonerated  from  all  the  charges  brought  against  him." 

Amabel,  whose  only  interest  now  in  life  beyond  the  welfare 
of  her  son,  was  in  the  naval  intelligence  of  the  morning 
papers,  read  this  paragraph  again,  again,  and  again  with  ever 
varying  emotion.  In  these  few  words  the  interest  of  the  whole 
newspaper  appeared  comprised.  To  her  eyes  they  were  printed 
in  large  type.  She  cut  them  out,  and  then  destroyed  the 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT.  237 

paper,  fearing  lest  by  her  preservation  of  the  paragraph  her 
interest  in  Captain  Warner  might  be  discovered  by  other  eyes. 
It  is  my  belief  that  had  she  at  that  time  died  suddenly,  these 
few  words  folded  on  her  heart  would  have  revealed  the  secret 
of  her  love.  So  absorbing  a  power  had  her  new  affection,  that 
vague  as  the  intelligence  was  so  far  as  related  to  the  escape  of 
Felix  Guiscard,  it  was  enough  to  make  her  sure  that  Ferdinand 
must  be  a  villain.  She  never  thought  of  doubting  the 
correct  judgment  of  the  court-martial.  In  her  heart  of 
hearts,  her  husband  had  long  had  his  acquittal.  She  knew 
he  was  incapable  of  a  dishonorable  action,  or  his  affection  for 
herself  extenuated  in  her  eyes  any  stratagem  of  love.  She 
had  long  felt  sure  that  some  excuse  or  explanation  could 
be  made  for  him  ;  and  now  that  Not  Guilty  was  pronounced 
professionally,  her  mind  delighted  to  depose  all  doubts  at  the 
foot  of  his  acquittal.  In  proportion  as  her  heart  and  judg- 
ment exonerated  Captain  Warner,  she  found  a  pleasure  in  con- 
vincing herself  that  she  hated  Colonel  Guiscard.  She  believed 
him  capable  of  any  villany.  Every  remembrance  of  him 
brought  the  blood  into  her  face  and  sent  a"  sharp  pang  through 
her  bosom.  The  thought  of  him  would  take  her  unawares, 
and  make  her  start,  and  say  wild  words,  and  use  impatient 
gestures,  which  the  people  about  her  interpreted  as  they  would. 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  her  poor  child,  instead  of  growing 
larger,  seemed  to  shrivel  away.  Its  poor  little  weak  arms  were 
bent  and  withered.  Its  little  face  had  an  habitual  expression 
of  weak  suffering.  The  mother  sent  for  new  doctors.  They 
came  from  a  distance,  knew  the  case  was  hopeless,  but  being 
obliged  to  prescribe  something,  recommended  a  change  of 
nurse.  They  say  that  it  was  piteous  to  see  the  mothers  look, 
as  she  resigned  her  treasure  into  other  hands,  her  secret  envy 
as  she  watched  it  lying  on  the  bosom  of  another.  And  as  she 
took  him  back  into  her  arms  one  can  undei'stand  the  jealous 
impulse  which  made  her  press  him  closer  to  her  own  maternal 
heart. 

The  poor  little  fellow  wasted.  He  came  into  the  world  at 
an  unpropitious  season.  They  might  perhaps  have  saved  him 
had  he  been  born  in  early  spring,  with  bright  soft  summer 


238  AMABEL;  A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

weather  for  the  first  days  of  his  life ;  but  in  the  chilling  breath 
of  a  cold  November,  he  withered  away.  His  mother  watched 
him  without  rest.  Day  and  night  she  held  him  on  her  knees 
for  a  week  before  he  died.  It  gave  her  pain  when  anv  other 
woman  touched  him.  She  went  about  without  tears,  but  with 
a  vacant  look  of  acute  suffering.  You  would  have  said  that 
she  was  so  absorbed  in  watching  the  slow  approach  of  a  great 
sorrow  that  she  was  hardly  sensible  to  the  reality  of  any  pre- 
sent grief. 

Only  a  few  hours  before  he  died,  when  his  little  life  seemed 
nearly  spent,  and  the  doctors  and  wise  women  first  said  that 
he  must  die,  she  sent  on  a  sudden,  by  early  daylight,  for  the 
Vicar.  He  came  and  baptized  the  child.  She  called  him 
Leonard ;  but  her  voice  was  choked  as  she  tried  to  say  the 
name,  and  she  wrote  it  for  the  pastor.  They  could  not  get  her 
to  attend  to  the  entry  in  the  parish  register,  and  indeed  her 
distress  was  so  great  that  the  Vicar  did  not  persist  in  troubling 
her. 

The  baby  died  at  day-break  the  next  morning.  His  mother 
watched  the  final  gaspings  of  his  feeble  life — watched  with  her 
hapds  clasped  close,  straining  the  very  nerves  of  her  thin 
fingers. 

There  was  no  help  that  could  be  offered ;  every  human  aid 
was  powerless,  pity  and  love  had  no  refuge  but^in  prayer. 
They  could  only  watch  a  struggle  of  which  the  end  was  not 
uncertain.  They  stood  around  to  see  him  die.  At  length  the 
women  present  all  drew  back.  The  parting  pang  was  over. 

There  had  been  no  word  spoken  in  the  chamber  for  some 
time.  At  last  one  of  the  women  whispered  something  to 
another.  The  mother  heard  her  words  or  caught  their  mean- 
ing. 

"  I  know  he  is  dead,"  she  exclaimed  vehemently ;  and  start- 
ing wildly  from  the  low  chair  on  which  she  sat,  she  clasped 
her  son's  corpse  tightly  to  her  breast,  and  began  walking 
backwards  and  forwards  in  the  room,  as  if  lulling  back  to  an 
uneasy  sleep  the  child  that  slept  the  sleep  that  knows  no 
waking. 

She  sted   no  tear,  but  in  her  eyes  there  gleamed  a  wild 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  239 

strange  look  of  half  bewildered  horror.  The  women  were 
afraid  of  her.  They  stood  together  in  a  corner  of  the  room 
and  whispered  one  to  another.  But  anything  that  they  might 
now  say  in  her  presence  was  unheard.  Then  they  made 
attempts  to  get  the  child  away,  but  did  not  know  how  to 
manage  her,  and,  as  I  said,  were  afraid  of  her.  They  succeeded 
only  in  irritating  her. 

"  Leave  us  alone.  Leave  us  in  peace,"  was  all  she  said,  and 
pressed  her  baby  closer. 

At  last  the  doctor  came.  He  drew  off  the  women.  "  You 
must  not  anger  her,"  he  said,  "  but  get  her  into  bed.  This  is 
partly  want  of  sleep.  Tears  will  relieve  her." 

He  went  up  to  her  with  an  air  of  authority,  and  offered  to 
take  the  baby  out  of  her  arms.  She  looked  him  in  the  face, 
stopped  in  her  walk,  and  drew  back  from  him.  Then  stooping 
towards  the  cradle  she  laid  in  it  the  body  of  her  child,  com- 
posed its  little  limbs,  took  off  its  tiny  cap,  kissed  its  pale 
temples,  smoothed  down  the  little  hair  upon  its  head,  and 
motioned  to  the  doctor  to  give  her  another  cap,  pointing  to  a 
drawer.  He  obeyed  her.  The  little  ruffle  was  adjusted  round 
its  face.  It  lookel  happy  and  asleep,  marble  white  and  calm, 
without  a  trace  of  suffering.  She  gave  one  last  long  gaze 
upon  it,  such  a  gaze  as  one  may  venture  to  imagine  when 
a  mother  looks  her  last,  and  then  rose  up,  turning  towards  the 
Doctor,  this  time  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  say,  "  There  !  all 
is  done.  What  do  you  expect  more  of  me  ?''  He  took  her  by 
the  arm,  and  led  her  to  another  chamber.  .  .  . 

All  through  that  day  and  the  next  night  she  lay  upon  her 
bed.  She  uttered  no  murmur  of  complaint ;  she  was  quiet  and 
gentle  uhen  they  spoke  to  her;  but  the  expression  of  her  face 
never  varied.  It  wore  a  stony  look.  Suffering  was  stamped 
on  all  the  features,  but  no  sort  of  expression  was  in  the  eyes. 
She  heard  them  saying  something  about  her  lack  of  tears,  and 
she  said  piteously,  "  Ask  God  not  to  let  me  lose  my  reason. 
I  wish  that  I  could  cry." 

Thank  God,  bless  God  all  ye  who  suffer  not 
More  grief  than  ye  can  weep  for. 


240  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

They  had  hea'rd  how  a  mother's  tears  have  been  made 
to  flow  after  bereavement  at  the  sight  of  little  relics  of  the 
darling  she  has  lost,  and  they  strewed  her  room  with  things 
that  had  belonged  to  him.  In  vain.  Nature  was  exhausted  ; 
she  was  insensible  to  the  reality  of  her  loss,  and  only  conscious 
of  some  great  sense  of  bitter  sorrow.  At  last  they  were  getting 
much  alarmed  about  her,  when  she  heard  some  one  saying 
outside  her  door  that  a  letter  for  her  had  come.  .  .  Should  it 
be  given  her  ? 

She  started  up  at  once  upon  her  bed,  and  eagerly  asked  to 
have  the  letter.  It  was  rare  for  her  to  receive  one.  For  weeks, 
with  hope  that  sickened  day  by  day,  and  yet  took  heart  at  the 
hour  that  the  mail  came  in,  she  had  watched  for  this  arrival. 
She  held  out  her  hand  for  it.  She  thought  for  a  moment  the 
direction  was  in  the  desired  writing.  She  broke  the  seal. 
The  superscription  had  deceived  her.  The  letter  was  from 
Olivia 

She  burst  into  tears.  She  wept  for  the  griefe  of  her  married 
life,  wept,  in  self  pity  for  her  present  fate,  wept  for  the  death  of 
her  lost  babe,  wept  for  the  disappointment  of  the  moment ; 
wept  with  a  mere  sense  of  the  relief  brought  by  those  precious 
tears.  They  relieved  the  oppression  on  her  brain,  and  then  she 
slept  Her  tears  had  saved  her. 

She  continued  some  days  in  this  state,  showing  little  disposi- 
tion to  contend  with  the  people  round  her,  who  insisted  that 
she  had  better  not  revisit  her  child's  room.  They  even  roused 
her  to  attend  to  some  of  the  arrangements  for  mourning,  and 
the  funeral.  Cares,  that,  however  they  may  jar  upon  the  feel- 
ings, are  of  service  to  the  afflicted,  rousing  them  (by  petty 
worries)  from  an  absorbing  sense  of  their  bereavement,  and  pro- 
viding what  is  of  most  service  to  a  disposition  like  Amabel's, 
something  they  are  compelled  to  do.  She  enclosed  £30  to  a 
London  dressmaker,  ordering  her  to  send  down  without  delay, 
everything  necessary  for  the  deepest  mourning. 

She  went  herself  to  the  funeral.  She  stood  sole  mourner, 
calm  and  tearless  by  the  coffin,  while  others  were  performing 
the  last  rites.  When  all  was  over,  and  the  damp  sods  of  the 
churchyard  hid  it  from  her  view,  and  the  very  ministers  of 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  241 

death  were  preparing  to  go  away,  she  still  stood  silently  watch- 
ing the  spot  beside  the  grave  where  they  had  first  set  down  the 
little  coffin.  The  Vicar  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  led  her  from 
the  churchyard. 

"  I  prayed  for  you  with  my  whole  heart,"  he  said  to  her. 

"  I  did  not  hear  the  funeral  service,"  she  answered.  "  I 
was  not  even  thinking  of  my  child.  I  seemed  to  be  living  over 
a  scene  that  I  once  saw  in  Malta.  It  was  the  funeral  of  just 
such  a  little  one.  They  buried  her  with  her  face  exposed  upon 
an  open  bier,  without  a  coffin.  The  children  who  had  known 
her,  scattered  flowers  in  the  grave.  It  was  half  full  of  flowers 
when  they  began  to  throw  earth  over  her.  The  old  people 
gathered  round  the  mother.  She  walked  away  leaning  upon  her 
husband's  arm,  he  comforting  her.  They  prophesied  to  her,  a  new, 
a  living  son,  in  place  of  her  dead  baby.  How  came  I  to  think 
of  this  at  such  a  moment  ?  Can  you  account  for  it  ?  I  should 

4 have  been  thinking  only  of  my  own,  my  own  dead  child." 
He  wanted  to  take  her  home  to  his  vicarage,  but  she  declined, 
and  turned  away  alone  into  the  beech  wood,  by  the  path  that 
led  to  Mrs.  Hinde's.  The  Vicar  had  an  engagement  that  after- 
noon at  the  further  end  of  his  extensive  parish,  and  so  let  her 
depart  alone,  but  he  deeply  regretted  not  having  provided  for 
her  safety,  when,  towards  midnight,  he  was  called  up  by  a  mes- 
sage from  Mrs.  Hinde.  "The  lady  had  not  come  home. 
Was  she  passing  the  night  at  the  parsonage  ?" 

Starting  up  from  his  warm  bed,  he  went  out  into  the  chill 
night  air,  in  search  of  her.  He  turned  his  steps  first  into  the 
churchyard  ;  and  there,  as  he  expected,  found  her  sitting  on  a 
tomb,  too  much  benumbed  in  body  and  in  mind  to  give  much 
account  of  how  she  came  there.  All  she  could  say,  seemed  a  spe- 
cies of  excuse.  "  I  have  been  meaning  to  get  up  and  go  home ; 
I  have,  indeed,  sir." 

He  carried  her  in  his  arms  back  to  the  vicarage,  where  his 
wife  and  maid  kindled  a  blazing  fire,  and  chafed  her  stiffened 
limbs,  and  sat  up  all  that  night  with  her.  They  kept  her  there 
a  day  or  two,  but  she  spent  most  of  her  time  looking  at  the 
graveyard  from  her  window,  unless  any  person  brought  her 

11 


242  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

anything  to  do,  when  she  mechanically  took  it  in  hand  and 
finished  it. 

They  learned  afterwards  what  had  become  of  her  when  she 
parted  from  the  Vicar  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  She  had 
wandered  away  through  the  beech  woods,  where  the  skeleton 
trees,  dropping  their  russet  mantles  round  their  feet,  stood  bare 
and  dreary;  to  a  small  cabin  on  the  edge  of  the  black  moor- 
land. A  poor  woman  lived  there  with  a  large  family.  The 
tenth  child,  an  infant,  had  died  three  weeks  before.  Its  wicker 
cradle  now  stood  empty  by  the  wall,  and  it  slept  its  sleep  near 
little  Leonard,  by  the  yew  tree,  in  the  churchyard. 

The  mother  was  washing.  I  suppose  she  would  have  given 
her  life  for  her  baby's  life  in  the  horrors  of  shipwreck,  in  time 
of  pestilence,  or  even  in  the  fearful  trial  of  famine,  when  human 
nature  sinks,  by  slow  stages,  into  brute  nature ;  but  now,  that 
the  poor  thing  was  dead  and  buried,  she  returned  to  her  inter- 
est in  other  duties,  and  like  David,  having  fasted  and  wept 
while  the  child  lived,  after  its  death  she  put  aside  her  sorrow, 
to  be  indulged  in  only  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  with  her  Bible 
in  her  hand,  and  her  best  gown  on,  or  on  a  quiet  evening, 
when  she  was  not  too  tired,  and  the  children  were  asleep,  and 
all  the  work  put  by.  She  looked  up  from  her  wash-tub,  and 
saw  a  woman  standing  in  deep  black,  pale  and  silent,  at  her 
door.  She  guessed  who  it  must  be  at  once,  and,  wringing  the 
soap-suds  from  her  arms,  and  wiping  down  a  chair,  asked  the 
lady  to  be  seated.  Amabel  came  in  without  speaking.  The 
woman,  embarrassed  by  her  silence,  began  to  make  apologies 
for  Tommy's  dirty  face,  and  Sarah  Jane's  torn  pinafore,  and 
her  own  untidy  condition.  "  But,  where  there's  such  a  sight 
of  children,"  she  said,  "  it  takes  a  body  more  than  her  whole 
time  to  slave  after  them." 

"And  you  have  lost  a  little  boy  ?"  said  the  visitor. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  mother,  recalled  to  a  remembrance  of  her 
bereavement.  "  He  was  long  a-dying,  and  there  was  a  sight  to 
do  when  he  was  ill.  Things  got  all  behindhand.  I  am  just 
beginning  to  tidy  up  a  bit ;  and  here's  Sarah  Jane,  the  doc- 
tor says,  is  threatened  with  consumption.  Let  go  the  lady's 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  243 

gown,  child,  or  I'll  beat  you.  Yes,  my  lady,  I've  had  a  deal  to 
struggle  through  this  year  past.  My  poor  little  Davy  !  That 
was  his  little  cradle.  As  I  say,  they  are  better  off  in  Heaven, 
Ma'am,  if  we  could  only  think  so." 

Amabel  stood  up.  She  had  come  round  there  partly  to  feed 
her  own  grief  upon  the  sorrows  of  another.  The  thoughts  that 
this  woman  expressed,  simple  as  they  were,  were  to  her 
unlocked  for.  That  life  had  any  interests  and  duties  left,  that 
children  bring  us  worries,  and  anxieties,  and  troubles,  even  the 
simple  thought  that  consoled  this  hard-working,  rough  woman, 
that  the  baby  she  had  lost  was  better  off  in  Heaven,  came 
freshly  to  her  heart.  Old  truths  newly  realized,  bring  most 
comfort  in  affliction. 

"  I  came,"  ....  she  said,  "  I  thought  ....  you  might 
be  glad  to  put  up  a  little  stone  to  the  memory  of  your  infant. 
You  may  put  a  stone  and  a  name  over  him.  My  boy  is  buried 
near.'" 

She  put  a  ten  pound  note  into  the  woman's  hand,  and  went 
back  to  sit  till  midnight  on  the  grave,  where  the  kind  Vicar 
found  her  in  the  chilling  dampness,  and  in  deepening  gloom. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


If  our  first  lays  too  piteous  have  been, 
And  you  have  feared  our  tears  would  never  cease  ; 
If  we  too  gloomily  Life's  prose  have  seen, 
Nor  suffered  Man  nor  mouse  to  dwell  in  peace, 
Yet  pardon  us  for  our  youth's  sake.     The  vine 
Must  weep  from  her  crushed  grapes  the  generous  wine  , 
Nor  without  pain  the  procious  beverage  flows. 
Thus  joy  and  power  may  yet  spring  from  the  woes 
Which  have  so  wearied  every  long-tasked  ear. — UHLAND. 

SHE  spent  a  day  or  two  at  the  Vicarage,  where  all  that  could 
be  done  was  done  to  rouse  her.  The  truth  is,  it  was  very  diffi- 
cult to  lead  one  who  had  so  few  interests  in  life  and  so  few  ties, 


244  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

from  one  sole  thought  to  a  sense  of  life's  remaining  pleasures 
and  duties. 

She  sat  all  day  at  the  window  of  her  room,  looking  out 
upon  the  churchyard,  thinking  frequently  how  greatly  she  dis- 
liked the  Vicar's  wife,  for  feeling,  as  she  knew  she  felt,  that  this 
immoderate  grieving  for  her  loss  was  impious  and  unnatural. 
When  she  went  back  to  Mrs.  Hinde's  it  was  but  a  nominal 
return  to  her  old  lodging,  for  she  haunted  her  child's  grave  by 
the  yew  tree  in  the  churchyard. 

One  afternoon  the  Vicar,  finding  that  he  could  not  persuade 
her  to  quit  the  nameless  little  mound,  carried  her  some  dinner. 
It  was  time  to  bring  to  bear  upon  the  case  his  personal  influ- 
ence and  his  pastoral  authority.  He  sat  down  beside  the 
grave,  and  repeated  that  beautiful  passage  of  the  Scriptures 
beginning ;  "  But  I  would  not  have  you  ignorant,  brethren,  con- 
cerning them  that  are  asleep,  that  ye  sorrow  not  even  as 
others  that  have  no  hope." 

She  seemed  to  pay  it  no  heed.  He  said,  "  I  must  speak 
plainly  to  you.  As  the  ambassador  of  God  I  am  called  to 
counsel  you.  You  have  yielded  long  enough  to  what  I  may 
venture  to  call  the  instincts  of  your  grief;  it  is  time  that  you 
should  now  assert  the  empire  of  your  reason." 

"  It  is  many  days,"  she  answered,  "  since  I  have  read  a 
chapter  in  the  Bible,  but  one  verse  seems  ever  ringing  through 
my  mind.  '  These  two  things  are  come  upon  thee  in  one  day, 
loss  of  children  and  widowhood.'  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Gresse  at 
the  Wood's  End  after  my  child's  funeral,  but  her  sorrow  was 
not  like  my  sorrow." 

"  flow  old  are  you  ?"  said  the  Vicar. 

"  I  am  barely  twenty-one." 

"  And  with  a  strong  constitution  and  the  prospect  of  a  long 
life,  can  you  fancy  that  the  Father  of  Mercies  intends  that  at 
twenty-one  the  loves  and  interests  of  life  should  terminate  for 
you  ?  At  twenty-one  we  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  real 
life.  '  The  present  day  may  be  the  better  for  yesterday's 
error.' " 

"  Ah  !  yes,"  said  Amabel.  "  This  is  true,  no  doubt,  to  you. 
But  place  yourself  in  my  case,  lose  at  one  blow  and  by  your 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  245 

own  fault,  wife,  children,  honor,  station,  family  influences  and 
family  ties  !" 

"  '  My  grace  is  sufficient  for  thee,  for  my  strength  is  made 
perfect  in  weakness.'  I  should  blame  myself,"  the  Vicar 
answered,  "  if  I  had  not  the  courage  to  do  what  should  be 
done  by  a  wise  mind." 

"  What  would  you  do  P 

"  I  should  try  to  remember  that  in  God  the  Christian  not 
only  rests  all  his  hopes,  but  has  his  relations  to  all  things. 
That  as  a  Christian  there  is  promised  him  ten-fold  even  in  this 
life  for  all  that  he  has  lost,  father,  mother,  wife,  and  children 
here,  and  in  the  world  to  come  life  everlasting." 

"  I  hardly  understand  you,"  said  Amabel. 

"  To  what  end,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  are  all  the  good  gifts  of 
God  bestowed  upon  His  people?  For  what  three  ends  did 
God  Almighty  give  you  your  child,  for  instance,  or  your 
husband  ?"  . 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  For  your  good, — and  for  their  good, — and  for  His  own 
glory." 

She  shuddered. 

"  These  blessings  have  been  now  recalled,  but  other  gifts  are 
left.  Your  health  and  strength,  your  money,  and  God's  poor." 

"  A  blessing  ?" 

"Most  undoubtedly;  and  they  are  always  with  you.  Is  it 
not  a  privilege  to  those  who  have  lost  all  themselves  to  find  all 
again  in  Christ  even  in  this  world  ?" 

"  Day  after  day  since  my  loss,"  she  replied,  "  I  have  said 
I  will  arouse  myself,  yet  grief  importunate  has  pleaded  for 
indulgence.  How  shall  I  begin  ?  What  do  you  expect  of  rne  ?" 

"  Begin,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  by  reestablishing  your  relations 
with  the  world.  There  are  interests  enough  hidden  under  the 
surface  of  things  about  us.  '  Grasp  into  the  thick  of  human 
life.'  Whatever  your  hand  brings  up,  will  awaken  healthy 
new  emotion.  Make  the  most,  in  the  worst  of  circumstances,  of 
their  attendant  advantages.  For  example,  in  your  position  you 
have  lost  all  you  enumerate,  but  have  gained  an  independence 
in  exchange.  How  many,  bound  to  uncongenial  duties,  would 


246  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

gladly  begin  life  afresh,  as  you  can  do !  '  The  good  goat  will 
browse  where  she  is  tethered,'  says  our  proverb.  I  should 
give  you  almost  the  advice  that  I  would  give  to  an  old 
maid  .  .  .  . 

"  To  such  an  one  belongs,  in  the  first  instance,  social  duties  of 
all  kinds.  Not  merely  care  of  the  poor,  but  the  promotion  of 
the  benefit  of  others  in  all  the  relations  between  man  and  man. 

"  Positive  work  is  a  great  blessing.  That  unmarried  woman 
is,  I  think,  the  happiest,  who  labors  by  her  head  or  by  her 
hands  for  some  portion  of  her  income.  Still,  work  is  of  many 
kinds.  In  your  case,  the  charge  of  a  fortune,  the  duties  of 
housekeeping,  and  of  a  country  lady,  would  supply  you  with 
actual  necessary  occupation. 

"  Thirdly,  care  of  her  own  health  is  necessary  to  the  single 
woman.  Nothing  can  be  done  without  health  in  her  position. 
Neglected  health  is  the  soil  from  which  spring  many  sorrows. 

"  And  lastly,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  a  woman  without  arbitrary 
ties,  can  so  regulate  her  life  as  to  be  much  in  God's  service,  and 
in  prayer  for  others,  in  his  temple,  like  Anna,  the  Prophetess, 
a  widow  indeed." 

"  Then,"  said  Amabel,  and  her  eyes  rekindled  as  she  raised 
them  to  the  Vicar's  face,  "  advise  me,  if  you  can,  what  are  the 
first  practical  steps  by  which  all  this  may  be  accomplished.  I 
have  courage,  health,  and  energy,  thanks  to  my  happy  child- 
hood ;  you  tell  me  I  have  independence.  In  God's  name,  if  life 
has  anything  to  offer,  let  me  claim  it  now." 

"  As  a  first  step,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  I  would  recommend  your 
taking  a  house  in  this  or  in  some  other  country  neighborhood. 
The  influence  of  our  country  gentry  is  immense.  The  poor 
would  have  positive  and  established  claims  upon  you,  and  your 
position  give  you  claims  at  once  on  the  respect  and  attention 
of  the  poor." 

"  I  thought  of  it,"  said  Amabel.  "  I  have  thought  of  it.  But 
my  position  was  uncertain.  I  hoped  ....  I  have  hoped 
lately  for  a  reconciliation  with  my  husband.  I  had  thought  of 
taking  some  small  place,  it  might  be  in  this  neighborhood,  but 
then,  my  child's  feet  would  have  made  music  in  my  house, 
now  ." 


AMABEL;    A   FA  MILT   HISTORY.  247 

"  One  moment  o'er  her  face 
The  tablet  of  uuutterable  thoughts  was  traced." 

Then  came  a  sudden  vision  of  herself  as  Lady  of  the  Manor, 
occupying  an  independent  position,  respected  in  her  neighbor- 
hood, with  loving  interests  in  others,  and  herself  beloved.  She 
imagined  the  return  of  Captain  Warner,  a  man  on  whom  the 
opinions  of  other  men  reacted  very  strongly.  She  knew  his 
character  well  enough  to  be  sure,  that  in  such  a  position,  she 
would  be  able  to  command  his  forgiveness  and  regard  far  more 
than  by  any  pathetic  appeals  to  his  sympathy. 

The  Vicar  sat  silent.  He  could  see  a  struggle  going  on 
within  her  mind,  and  waited  till  her  next  remark  gave  indica- 
tion of  its  nature. 

"  What  places  are  to  be  let  in  this  neighborhood  ?"  she  said. 
"  I  should  only  wish  to  hire." 

"  Not  many  very  near  here.  This  is  the  most  retired  vicinity 
in  England,  and  we  have  few  country  seats  about  us.  There  is . 
a  pretty  little  cottage,  at  a  low  rent,  in  a  parish  about  fifteen 
miles  from  here,  of  which  a  friend  of  mine  is  the  incumbent ; 
but  it  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  Great  Heath,  and  can  scarcely 
be  got  at,  the  roads  are  so  bad.  There  is  Horton  Hall,  a  mile 
or  two  from  here." 

"  A  place  much  too  expensive  for  my  six  hundred  per 
annum.'1 

"Hardly.  Its  hay  would  almost  pay  the  rent,  and  its  pos- 
session give  you  great  influence  amongst  us." 

Amabel  half  laughed. 

"  It  is  absurd,"  she  said,  "  my  setting  out  to  manage  all  these 
matters.  I  am  so  inexperienced.  I  have  made  so  signal  a  failure 
in  whatever  I  have  undertaken  hitherto.  How  should  I  ever 
look  after  an  estate,  and  fulfil  the  duties  of  my  Lady  Bountiful  ?" 

"  We  would  have  great  patience  with  your  efforts,  and  allow 
you  a  handsome  per  centage  of  egregious  errors  for  the  first 
few  months,"  the  Vicar  replied. 

"  Is  Horton  Hall  on  view  ?" 

"Yes;  if  I  put  my  forrest  pony  into  old  Hinde's  tax  cart, 
will  you  let  me  drive  you  there  ?" 

Amabel  pondered,  with  a  half  smile  on  her  face. 


248  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

She  bad  vigor  of  mind,  and  a  happy  vigor  of  constitution. 
In  spite  of  watching  and  of  sorrow,  regular  exercise,  and  the 
pure  air  of  this  open  country,  had  renewed  her  strength. 

A  person  of  her  temperament  must  be  roused  by  practical  sug- 
gestions, and  the  want  of  anything  practical  in  our  consolations 
is  the  reason  why  we  so  seldom  console.  Such  a  person  is 
also  peculiarly  dependent,  in  cases  where  the  mind  is  unstrung, 
upon  the  patient  wisdom  of  a  judicious  friend.  Point  out 
something  to  be  done,  win  his  interest  and  his  attention,  allure 
him  to  exertion,  and  you  have  carried  him  more  than  half 
way  on  the  road  to  his  recovery. 

Amabel  assented  to  the  proposition  the  Vicar  made,  and  they 
both  arose.  As  they  did  so,  she  caught  sight  of  a  post-chaise 
entering  the  village. 

"  What  can  that  be  ?"  she  said  hurriedly. 

Before  he  had  time  to  answer  her,  it  drew  up  on  the  Green, 
.and  a  man  inside,  after  making  an  inquiry,  got  out  and  walked 
towards  the  Vicar's  door. 

Amabel  made  a  sudden  exclamation.  All  the  projects  and 
the  visions  that  had  been  floating  in  her  mind  a  moment  or 
two  before,  had  vanished. 

"  It  is  for  me,"  she  cried.  "  I  know  him.  He  is  our  lawyer, 
Mr.  Trevor.  He  has  come  to  see  me." 

"  Shall  I  see  him  first  ?"  said  the  Vicar,  observing  how  much 
she  was  agitated. 

"Yes,  if  you  would!  But  let  me  know  .  .  .  soon  .  .  . 
quickly,  if  you  please,  does  he  come  from  .  .  .  from  .  .  .  my 
husband !" 

The  Vicar  went  towards  his  own  door,  and  left  her  standing 
alone  tinder  the  yew  tree.  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

How  marvellous  is  the  power  of  thought !  By  one  brief 
thought  our  weakness  becomes  strong.  Five  minutes'  thought 
may  send  us  back  into  the  world  enriched  with  a  purpose  that 
shall  adorn  a  life-time. 

"  God  help  me !"  she  said  slowly.  The  thought  expanded 
into  prayer.  '  A  word  to  God  is  a  word  from  God.' 

The  Vicar  returned.     There  was  a  new  light  in  her  eyes,  and 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  249 

a  grave  smile  on  her  lip.  He  seemed  to  look  compassionately 
upon  her. 

"  It  is  a  messenger  for  you,  but  not  from  the  quarter  you 
expect,"  he  began. 

"  Bad  news  ?     In  pity  tell  it  me  ...  at  once." 

The  grave  smile  lingered  on  her  lip,  but  the  light  in  her  eyes 
was  troubled. 

"  It  is  not  good  news.     It  is  a  death." 

"  Is  it  ...  is  it  Leonard  .  .  .  my  husband  ?  Is  it  Captain 
Warner?" 

"  My  news  has  no  relation  to  your  husband.  Have  you  had 
no  letters  lately  ?" 

"  Several  from  my  half-sister." 

"'Did  they  say  nothing  about  your  mother's  illness  ?  I  am 
told  they  were  on  that  subject." 

"  I  never  read  one  of  them." 

"They  have  sent  your  man  of  business  here  to  find  you. 
He  describes  the  present  position  of  your  family  as  most  melan- 
choly. Your  mother's  death  was  hastened  by  the  unfortunate 
position  of  Captain  Talbot's  affairs.  He  has  embarked  in  specu- 
lations, which  have  swallowed  up  his  fortune.  He,  himself,  over- 
whelmed by  the  same  blow,  has  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis, 
which  leaves  him  helpless,  and  has  weakened  all  his  faculties. 
Bailiffs  are  in  the  house.  The  family  is  without  a  head,  and 
is  anxious  for  your  presence.  Captain  Talbot,  the  lawyer  tells 
me,  is  continually  asking  for  you." 

"  I  am  ready.  I  am  prepared  to  start  at  once,"  she  exclaimed 
with  energy. 

The  Vicar  was  astonished.  He  had  expected  that  his  news 
would  overpower  her.  He  found  her  calm  and  strong.  He 
did  not  know,  indeed,  how  slight  had  been  the  intercourse 
between  her  and  her  mother's  family.  £he  might  have  felt 
her  orphanhood  more  keenly,  had  not  the  few  unhappy  months 
of  their  intercourse  weakened  instead  of  strengthened  mere 
natural  ties.  Amabel  was  not  insensible,  but  iii  her  secret 
heart  I  believe  she  grieved  less  for  her  own  loss  than  for  Captain 
Talbot's  sorrows.  In  all  the  intercourse  that  she  had  had  with 
him  she  had  found  him  kind  and  fatherly. 


250  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

There  passed  through  her  mind  a  vision  of  assisting  him,  of 
aiding  all  of  them,  of  being  useful  and  of  consequence  amongst 
them,  of  possessing  through  them  once  more  family  influence 
and  family  ties. 

She  went  into  the  Vicarage,  and  exchanged  a  few  words 
alone  with  Mr.  Trevor.  When  she  came  forth  again,  though 
there  was  a  composed,  calm  gravity  about  her  face,  her  step 
had  grown  more  buoyant  than  of  late.  It  was  no  longer  the 
slow,  listless,  hopeless  tread  to  which  she  had  grown  accustomed. 

She  hurried  home  through  the  Hanger.  Mrs.  Hinde  saw 
her  coming,  and  marvelled  at  the  rapidity  of  her  walk.  Every : 
thing  was  at  once  put  into  a  bustle.  In  half  an  hour  her 
trunks  were  packed.  The  people  at  the  farm  could  not  under- 
stand, except  they  interpreted  her  conduct  by  affectation  or 
hypocrisy,  how  a  woman  late  so  nerveless  and  indifferent  could 
have  so  much  authority,  energy,  and  decision  now. 

She  took  with  her  about  £200  in  money,  which  was  after- 
wards of  great  assistance  to  her. 

The  Vicar  drove  round  in  the  chaise  to  the  farm  to  take 
leave  of  her.  She  took  him  up  for  a  few  moments  into  her 
dead  child's  chamber,  and  gave  him  charge  of  the  little  crib 
and  of  some  other  things.  What  more  passed  during  the  few 
minutes  they  were  alone  together  she  never  told,  but  when  she 
came  out  of  the  chamber,  the  tears  that  glistened  on  her  cheek 
had  melted  for  ever  the  old-  hard  stony  look  out  of  her  eyes. 
He  put  her  into  the  carriage.  The  people  round  it  caught  bro- 
kenly a  few  of  their  last  words. 

"  Yes ;  I  feel  the  worst  is  past."  "  Indeed,  I  thank  you." 
"  To  lead  a  new  life."  "I  will ;  God  helping  me." 

They  passed  rapidly  through  the  village.  Crossing  the  green 
she  leaned  forward  to  look  her  last  towards  the  churchyard 
and  its  western  yew  tree.  She  smiled  a  farewell  to  the 
Vicar's  wife  who  stood  at  her  own  gate  watching  her,  and 
overcoming  a  sore  temptation  to  give  way  to  tears  and  silence, 
turned  with  some  question  -about  her  mother's  death  to  her 
travelling  companion. 

"  Action  !  Work,  work  at  any  price,"  said  her  heart.  The 
spirit  of  duty  was  active,  the  spirit  of  love  had  not  yet  been 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY.  251 

brought  to  bear.  Her  affection  for  her  dead  son  had  been 
passion,  too  exclusive  to  awaken  the  real  springs  of  lovingness 
in  her  heart.  The  death  of  her  child  had  left  her  nerveless, 
spiritless,  lonely  in  the  world.  A  new  era  in  her  life  seemed 
about  to  begin.  The  fountains  of  love  had  not  been  opened  in 
her ;  but  with  a  new  position,  new  relations,  and  new  responsi- 
bilities, a  new  experience  was  at  hand.  She  was  to  learn  in  a 
few  hours  the  impossibility  henceforth  of  doing  good  by  any- 
thing but  by  her  personal  relations  to  others.  Not  her  money 
but  her  influence  was  to  be  blessed,  blessed  through  the  direct 
and  indirect  working  from  the  inward  to  the  outward  of  the 
holy  spirit  of  love. 


END    OF    PART    6ECOKD. 


CtitA. 


DRAWN    CHIEFLY. FROM    PAPERS   GIVEN    ME   BY 
THEODOSIUS   ORD:    MY    FATHER. 


Per  correr  miglior  acqua  alza  le  vele 
Oinai  la  navicella  del  mio  ingegno, 

Che  lascia  dietro  a  se  mar  si  crudele  ; 
E  cantero  di  quel  secondo  regno, 

Ove  1'  umano  spirito  si  purga, 
E  di  salire  al  ciel  diventa  degno. 


DANTE.     Purgatorio. 


To  scud  o'er  brighter  wave  >  1  spread  the  sails 
Of  my  yacht  Fancy  ;  which  but  now  has  left 
Far  in  her  wake  yon  boisterous  cruel  sea. 
And  fain  I  sing  of  that  fair  second  realm 
Wherein  the  human  soul  herself  may  purge, 
And  grow  more  worthy  t  <  ascend  to  Heaven. 


PART    III. 

CHAPTER   I. 

The  glow,  the  glance  had  passed  away, 
The  sunshine  and  the  sparkling  glitter, 
Still  though  I  noticed  pale  decay 
The  retrospect  was  scarcely  bitter ; 
For  in  theif  place  a  calmness  dwelt 
Serene — subduing — soothing — holy. 

THESE  lines  were  much  admired  by  my  father ;  perhaps  he  too 
felt  they  could  be  made  to  have  reference  to  her.  I  learned 
them  by  heart  when  a  very  little  girl,  and  quote  them  now 
from  memory.  They  are  from  Blackwood's  Magazine  for  the 
spring  of  1829,  and  are  part  of  a  very  sweet  poem  by  Delta, 
called  "Time's  Changes." 

Take  the  train  from  London,  reader,  if  you  wish  to  visit  our 
localities,  and  let  it  put  you  out  at  a  lone  station,  in  the  midst 
of  that  desolate  heath  country  through  which  the  old  high- 
road to  Portsmouth  used  to  run, — the  wilderness  of  moorland 
which  lies  upon  the  borders  of  Hampshire  and  Surrey.  You 
may  take  a  post-chaise  at  this  place  if  you  will,  either  at  the 
staring  hotel  of  the  station  or  at  a  little  country  inn  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  to  the  right  of  it,  at  the  sign  of  Tumble- 
down-Dick, a  name  not  uncommon  with  inns  in  that  vicinity, 
given  probably  in  derision  of  the  downfall  of  Richard  Cromwell. 

Your  chaise  will  carry  you  some  dozen  miles  over  the  most 
barren  country  that  your  eyes  have  ever  lighted  on.  Not 
a  tree,  not  a  green  herb,  not  a  house  nor  rill  of  water.  In  Sep- 
tember, when  the  purple  heath  is  in  full  blossom,  this  moorland 
is  extremely  beautiful ;  but  at  all  other  seasons  of  the  year  it 
lies  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  a  brown  and  sombre  mass, 
stretching  out  to  the  horizon,  undulated  it  is  true,  but  unre- 
lieved by  any  change  of  tint,  save  where  the  passing  clouds 


256  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

reflect  themselves  upon  its  surface.  Passing  at  length  through 
a  straggling  country  town,  stretch  your  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  yonder  on  your  left  hand  at  the  edge  of  the  duu 
moorland  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  white  mansion. 
You  go  on  your  way  pondering  sad  thoughts  of  man's  faithless- 
ness and  cruelty,  and  thinking  over  one  of  the  mysteries  of 
general  interest  inherited  by  the  men  of  this  generation.  You 
have  seen  the  house  celebrated  for  the  loves  of  a  secretary  and 
a  waiting-woman — of  Swift  and  Stella. 

Travel  on,  and  by  and  by  a  park  wall  skirts  the  moorland. 
On; — and  where  three  ways  appear  to  meet,  or  rather  where 
the  public  road  diverges  into  three  mere  cart  tracks,  your  car- 
riage sets  you  down  before  what  is  a  high  brick  wall,  but  looks 
a  hedge  of  ivy.  You  enter  through  a  doorway  fashioned 
through  the  wall,  and  find  yourself  walking  up  a  straight  paved 
path  to  a  dull  and  sombre  Elizabethan  cottage.  Pass  through 
its  hall ;  stand  on  the  lawn  beneath  its  windows.  The  scene 
has  changed.  You  are  at  the  edge  of  the  moorland.  The 
long  barren  waste  lies  out  of  sight  behind  the  cottage.  You 
are  on  an  elevation  looking  down  upon  a  cultivated  valley.  At 
your  feet  winds  a  tortuous  and  tiny  river,  yonder  is  the  village 
steeple,  crowned  with  dark  ivy,  peeping  coyly  through  the 
trees ;  all  around  is  fertility  and  cultivation,  in  the  distance 
stretch  wide  hilly  tracts  of  the  blue  moorland.  Flowers  breathe 
out  their  little  life  beside  your  feet.  The  very  aspect  of  the 
house  is  not  the  same ;  on  the  side  that  you  entered,  it  was 
sombre  as  a  castle,  on  the  lawn  side  a  rustic  porch  gives  to 
what  was,  at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  a  very  small  and 
inconvenient  dwelling,  an  air  of  refinement,  taste,  and  care. 

In  the  small  low  parlor  of  this  cottage  towards  the  close  of 
a  summer  afternoon,  two  years  after  the  closing  date  of  the 
last  part  of  our  story,  an  old  man  whom  sickness  had  much 
worn,  with  sharpened  features  and  long  thin  white  hair,  was 
asleep  before  a  smouldering  fire  of  peat,  though  it  was  early 
summer.  Beside  him  were  two  girls,  one  with  a  low  and  sullen 
brow,  who  was  standing  at  a  window  making  marks  with  her 
breath  and  fingers  on  the  panes;  the  other,  a  young,  fragile, 
delicate,  timid  creature  crouched  on  a  low  footstool,  with  a 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  257 

book  she  was  endeavouring  to  study  or  to  read.  The  door 
opened  suddenly,  and  a  fine  boy  nine  years  old  rushed  in.  He 
had  the  dark  hair  and  dark  eyes  of  the  elder  girl,  the  open 
brow  and  the  refined  expression  of  the  younger  of  the  two. 

"  Where's  Amabel  ?"  was  his  first  question. 

"  What  do  you  come  in  here  for  with  your  dirty  shoes,  sir  ?" 
was  the  elder  girl's  rejoinder.  "  Take  yourself  off,  come." 

A  sort  of  contemptuous  laugh  met  this  assumption  of  author- 
ity, and  the  boy  repeated  "  Where  is  Amabel  ?"  advancing  as 
he  said  so  into  the  room. 

"Oh!  Ned,  what  a  pretty  rose  that  is,"  said  Annie,  the 
younger  sister. 

The  old  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  stretched  out  his  hand 
towards  it. 

"  Don't  give  it  him,  Annie,"  said  the  boy  roughly.  "  No, 
father — not  this — you  can't  have  this,  sir.  Annie,  I  met  the 
new  visitor  coming  over  the  heath  to  the  Hill  Farm." 

"  Give  my  father  that  rose  directly,  Ned,"  said  Olivia,  snatch- 
ing it.  "  Are  his  own  children  to  be  taught  by  strangers  to 
fret  and  worry  him  ?  He  shall  have  it,  I  say." 

"  Be  quiet,  I  tell  you,  Olivia !  You  will  break  it.  It's  from 
Horace.  It  is  for  Amabel." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Olivia  ?"  said  a  steady  voice.  A  hand 
was  laid  on  Edward's  shoulder;  and  at  that  presence  every 
angry  word  subsided  in  the  room. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  of  no  use  now,"  said  Olivia.  "  Wherever  you 
come  that  boy  has  the  privilege  of  insulting  us.  I  give  it  up 
in  despair. 

"It's  just  this,  Amabel,"  cried  the  boy  eagerly;  "father 
wanted  the  rose  which  Horace  sent  you — the  only  one  of  the 
kind — poor  fellow — in  his  garden  ;  and  he  has  been  nursing 
it  all  the  spring  for  you." 

"  And  you  grew  very  rude,  and  very  much  excited,"  said 
Amabel,  turning  him  round,  and  pointing  with  a  half  smile  to 
the  reflection  of  his  red  face  in  a  small  looking-glass.  As  she 
did  so  she  took  a  bunch  of  roses  from  a  jar,  and  approach- 
ing her  step-father,  Captain  Talbot,  offered  to  exchange  them 
for  Horace's  white  rose.  There  was  no  fuss,  no  excitement  in 


258  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

her  manner,  and  the  poor  paralytic  allowed  her  to  take  the 
flower,  placing  the  roses  she  had  given  him  in  his  button-hole. 
"  Now,  Ned,"  she  said,  "  you  may  come  up  stairs  with  me. 
Bring  your  books,  but  be  very  quiet,  poor  little  Joseph  must 
not  be  disturbed." 

There  was  a  calm  authority  about  her  manner  which  restored 
quiet  to  the  room.  But  oh !  how  changed  she  is  since  we  last 
saw  her.  She  has  lived  such  years  as  tell  upon  the  close  of 
life,  and  make  old  age  like  a  long  sickness,  or  else  cut  off  ten 
years  at  the  latter  end  of  life  for  one  such  year  of  suffering  at 
the  beginning.  They  had  been  years  in  which  all  her  powers, 
moral,  physical,  and  mental,  were  kept  always  tuned  up  to 
their  highest  pitch.  Any  faltering,  any  flagging,  any  debilitat- 
ing self-pity,  any  yearning  for  compassion,  must  have  ruined 
her.  To  maintain  her  difficult  position  it  was  necessary  she 
should  be  always  self-possessed  and  calm.  Her  safety  lay  in 
the  conflict  and  variety  of  her  cares.  One  lonely  grief,  though 
small,  is  more  difficult  to  bear  than  a  variety  of  great  ones 
which  serve  to  check  each  other ;  that  is,  to  a  temperament 
like  Amabel's,  capable  even  beyond  its  strength  of  great  exer- 
tions, but  fond  of  brooding  in  inaction  when  not  sufficiently 
aroused. 

Her  dress  was  black,  of  ordinary  material,  but  fashioned 
with  a  French  simplicity  of  taste,  for  it  was  the  work  of  her 
own  hands.  The  glow,  the  bloom,  the  sparkle  of  her  youth 
had  passed  away.  Scarcely  any  trace  remained  of  the  bright 
face,  so  round,  so  soft,  so  fresh  in  early  girlhood ;  as  little  too 
was  left  of  the  young  wife,  more  pale,  more  timid,  less  self-con- 
fident ;  tender  and  confiding  if  trusted — pettish  and  resentful 
if  ill-used.  It  was  her  picture  drawn  in  chalks  not  long  after 
this  period  to  which  I  hare  already  alluded  in  the  introduc- 
tion. "  Beautiful,  young,  but  with  the  marks  of  early  sorrow 
in  her  face.  An  expression  which  fascinated  rather  than 
repelled,  which  made  you  feel  that  nothing  that  grieved  you 
could  be  too  trivial  for  her  to  sympathize  with,  and  no  sorrow 
so  terrible  but  that  she  might  venture  with  the  right  of  sad 
experience  to  bring  it  balm." 

Her  hair  was  worn  quite  plain,  a  fashion  then  unusual,  save 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  259 

for  widows.  She  had  been  in  the  habit  of  hiding  its  luxuriance 
under  caps,  but  that  proved  too  expensive  an  indulgence,  and 
now  the  hair  put  simply  back  was  worn  alone. 

And  her  character  ?  What  had  enabled  a  naturally  sensi- 
tive, excitable  woman  to  acquire  this  calm  and  quiet  manner 
unaccompanied  by  severity  or  affectation  ? 

She  owed  it  partly  to  having  been  crushed  to  the  earth  by 
personal  suffering,  at  the  time  she  entered  on  her  present 
responsibilities ;  the  slights  and  mortifications  then  inflicted  by 
Olivia  failed  to  give  pain  to  feelings  benumbed  and  deadened 
by  repeated  blows. 

She  had  found  Captain  Talbot  when  she  reached  him  from 

S ,  eager  to  see  her.  He  drew  her  towards  him  the 

moment  that  she  arrived,  and  whispered  in  his  now  imperfect 
speech,  "  It  is  all  gone — all  your  fortune" — and  then  he  wept 
and  whimpered  like  a  child. 

What  was  poor  Amabel  to  do  ?  Where  turn  in  the  midst 
of  such  disaster?  Should  she — her  pride  and  inclination  both 
prompted  her  to  this — at  once  seek  employment  for  herself, 
and  cease  to  be  a  burden  upon  the  little  property  of  the 
family  ?  But  duty  urged  her  to  remain.  Poor  Captain  Tal- 
bot would  cling  fast  to  her  skirts  as  she  stood  beside  his  bed, 
and  repeat  over  and  over  again,  "  Stay  here — stay  here."  He 
had  a  sort  of  vague  impression  that  if  she  shared  their  pit- 
tance he  should  not  have  wronged  and  ruined  her.  And  her 
sense  of  duty  cried  remain.  Remain,  even  though  taunted  by 
Olivia  as  a  beggar  and  intruder.  Remain  for  the  sake  of  those 
young  children — remain  for  the  sake  of  that  poor  step-father, 
whose  life  is  now  so  valuable  to  his  family  even  in  a  pecuniary 
point  of  view.  Thus  there  devolved  on  her — on  her — inexpe- 
rienced, single-handed,  unloved,  unwelcomed,  and  alone,  the 
care  of  this  feeble  paralytic — that  of  two  young  children,  Ned 
about  nine  years  old,  and  Joseph  six,  whose  education  and 
future  prospects  had  to  be  provided  for,  together  with  the 
charge  of  Annie  now  thirteen,  and  the  ungrateful  responsibility 
of  directing  Olivia.  To  meet  the  expenses  of  the  family  she 
had  absolutely  nothing  but  Captain  Talbot's  half-pay  of  ten 
and  sixpence  per  diem.  Olivia  had  had  in  infancy  a  small 


260  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

legacy  left  her  by  a  god-father  payable  upon  her  coming  of 
age,  when  it  would  be  about  £4,000 ;  but  this,  of  course,  was 
not  available. 

With  an  energy  and  judgment  not  to  have  been  expected 
from  one  so  inexperienced,  she  set  herself  to  make  future 
arrangements  for  the  family,  to  give  up  the  house  and  furniture 
for  the  benefit  of  the  creditors  of  Captain  Talbot,  and  to  seek 
another  home.  In  vain  Olivia  taunted  her,  slighted  her,  treated 
her  as  an  intruder. 

She  heard,  bat  seemed  to  hear  in  rain, 

Insensible  as  steel, 
If  aught  was  felt, — 'twas  only  pain 

To  find  she  could  not  feel. 

She  had  no  time  to  indulge  in  melancholy  imaginations,  and 
her  position  soon  became  to  her  a  stern,  a  terrible — yet  an 
accepted  reality.  This,  probably,  saved  her  from  much  suffer- 
ing. When  we  can  bring  our  mind  to  realize  our  fate,  and  start 
afresh  in  life  from  the  point  at  which  we  stand,  we  have  acquired 
a  sort  of  power  over  our  own  destiny. 

It  is  a  sad  mistake  to  think  that  in  this  life  there  is  but  one 
love.  Here  was  a  woman,  the  love  of  whose  heart  was  now 
given  wholly  to  a  man  whom  she  could  never  hope  to  see 
again — whom  she  had  not  understood — appreciated — nor  knew 
she  loved,  while  happiness  with  him  was  in  her  power.  It  was 
a  real  love,  though  surrounded  by  an  aureole  of  the  imagination. 
And  now,  she  was  beginning  life  anew ;  but  He,  who  will  not 
make  our  burden  greater  than  we  have  strength  to  bear,  was 
providing  for  her  objects  of  interest  and  of  affection.  She 
might  have  closed  her  heart,  as  many  of  us  do,  nursing  with 
jealous  care  our  own  peculiar  sorrow ;  but  her  sorrow  was  so 
real,  and  so  accepted,  that  there  was  no  fear  it  would  evapo- 
rate, if  not  daily  fed  and  cherished.  She  was  happy  to  be  made 
sometimes  to  forget  it,  and  very  ready  to  do  all  in  her  power, 
to  be  loving  and  beloved. 

She  resolved,  at  once,  to  move  away  from  the  neighborhood 
where  they  were  known,  partly  upon  her  own  account,  and 
partly  to  avoid  meeting  creditors,  who  had  suffered  by  the 
bankruptcy  of  her  step-father.  Olivia  violently  objected  to  her 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  261 

plans  of  strict  seclusion,  and  many  very  bitter  hours  did  the 
elder  sister  pass,  endeavoring  to  determine  whether  the  fortunes 
of  the  family  ought,  in  justice,  to  be  sacrificed  to  Olivia.  It 
was  a  painful  task,  because  she  had,  in  fact,  supplanted  her  as 
mistress  of  the  household,  and  she  felt  a  peculiar  responsibility 
in  having  the  welfare  and  direction  of  that  unhappy  girl  placed 
in  her  hands. 

She  determined,  however,  on  taking  this  small  cottage,  which 
had  been  once  recommended  to  her  by  the  Vicar.  It  stood 
close  to  a  farm-house,  on  a  sort  of  high  sand  bluff,  near  the 
village  of  Sandrock,  on  the  edge  of  the  broad  heath  country  of 
Hampshire  and  Surrey.  It  was  about  twelve  or  fifteen  miles 
from  the  scene  of  her  late  retirement,  but  the  cross  roads 

between  Sandrock  and  S were  so  impassable,  being  for 

many  miles  merely  rough  wagon  tracks  over  the  moorland,  that 
the  two  villages  were  nearly  as  much  separated  as  Cornwall 
from  Yorkshire.  They  had  been  residents  here  over  a  year,  and 
though  every  night  when  she  lay  down  to  sleep  something  was 
added  to  her  load,  it  was  nevertheless,  perhaps,  the  least  sensi- 
bly unhappy  year  that  she  had  passed  since  the  death  of  Felix 
Guiscard,  and  her  removal  from  Malta. 

"  Amabel,"  said  Annie  Talbot,  "  the  new  visitor  has  come 
down  to  the  Hill  Farm." 

"  Lieutenant  Theodosius  Ord,"  said  Ned.  "  I  met  him  just 
now,  with  Bevis  in  his  tax-cart,  coming  over  from  the  town ; 
and  Horace  told  me  to  say,  he  should  have  come  round,  Ama- 
bel, to  see  you,  had  he  not  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  stay 
at  home  and  see  his  cousin." 

She  was  standing  on  the  hearth,  with  her  back  towards  them, 
and  Horace's  white  rosebud  in  her  hand.  Edward  thought 
he  saw  her  kiss  it  lightly,  and  there  glistened  on  its  leaves  a 
dewdrop  or  a  tear. 

"  Come,  Ned,"  she  said,  after  having  rebuilt  the  fire  of  peat, 
stroked  back  her  step-father's  white  hair,  and  pressed  a  kiss 
upon  his  forehead.  And  she  went  up  stairs  once  more  to  little 
Joe's  sick  chamber,  taking  Edward  by  the  hand. 


262  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Oh  !  if  they  knew  and  considered,  unhappy  ones  ! — oh '.  could  they  see,  could 

But  for  a  moment  discern  how  the  blood  of  true  gallantry  kindles— 

How  the  old  knightly  religion,  the  chivalry  semi-quixotic 

Stirs  in  the  veins  of  a  man  at  seeing  some  delicate  woman 

Serving  him — toiling — for  him  and  the  world  ;  some  tcnderest  girl  now 

Over-weighted,  expectant  of  him,  is  it  ? — who  shall  if  only 

Duly  her  burden  be  lightened — not  wholly  removed  from  her,  mind  you, 

Lightened  if  but  by  the  love,  the  devotion  man  only  can  offer 

Grand  on  her  pedestal  rise,  as  urn-bearing  statue  of  Hellas. 

The  Bothie  of  Toper  na  Fuosich.     CLOUOII. 

THE  Hill  Farm,  mentioned  by  Ned  Talbot,  was  beautifully 
situated  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  about  a  ruile  from  the  Talbots' 
cottage.  It  belonged  to  Horace  Vane,  a  youth  whose  father 
was  head  of  the  great  banking-house  in  India,  of  Vane,  Chetney. 
and  Vane.  The  farm  had  been  left  to  Horace  by  his  mother, 
who  was  dead.  She  was  my  father's  aunt,  the  sister  of  the 
Rev.  George  Ord,  my  grandfather;  so  that  Horace  and  my 
father  were  first  cousins.  The  farm  is  now  turned  into  a  hand- 
some house.  At  the  time  of  which  I  write  it  was  a  farm  of  the 
better  class,  in  which  two  or  three  rooms  had  been  fitted  up 

for  the  residence  of  Horace  and  his  tutor. 

* . 
I  can  give  no  impartial  description  of  the  latter.     I  knew 

him  in  my  youth,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  man  I  hated  it 
was  Bevis.  I  never  knew  whether  I  disliked  him  most  when 
his  manners  were  in  full  dress  and  sanctimonious,  or  when 
they  were  familiar  and  en  neglige.  Even  as  a  little  child, 
nothing  would  have  tempted  me  to  stay  in  the  room  alone 
with  him,  or  kiss  him  ;  he  had,  even  with  us  children,  such  an 
unpleasantly  familiar  way. 

Horace  was  a  youth  nearly  eighteen  ;  very  handsome,  with  a 
profusion  of  dark  hair  more  luxuriant  than  fine.  His  nose  and 
mouth  were  exquisitely  formed.  His  smile  was  charming.  On 
his  upper  lip  there  was  a  slight  dark  down.  His  figure  was  a 
little  too  embonpoint  for  his  age,  the  result  of  taking  little  or 


AMABKL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  268 

no  exercise.     His  eyea  were  blue,  shaded  with  soft  dark  lashes. 
But 

Though  clear 

To  outward  view  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 
Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  had  forgot. 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  did  sight  appear 
Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star  throughout  the  year, 
Or  man  or  woman. 

Two  years  before  he  had  been  struggling  for  the  position  of 
head  boy  in  the  sixth  form  of  a  great  school ;  was  a  lad  of 
the  highest  promise,  an  only  son,  heir  to  great  wealth,  with 
brilliant  prospects,  the  petted  child  of  fortune.  He  was  spend- 
ing the  Christmas  holidays  with  a  school-mate,  his  friend  and 
rival.  The  friend  insisted  one  bright  morning  on  having 
a  day's  shooting.  Horace  reluctantly  threw  down  the  unfi- 
nished novel  he  was  never  to  look  into  again.  They  had 
crossed  their  first  field,  and  were  getting  over  a  stile,  when  the 
gun  of  the  friend  accidentally  went  off.  About  thirty  shot 
lodged  in  the  head  and  face  of  Horace.  Assistance  was  pro- 
cured ;  he  was  carried  to  the  house  ;  the  most  distinguished 
oculists  were  called  from  town.  They  came  only  to  repeat 
that  hope  was  vain. 

Since  his  blindness  he  had  shunned  the  world,  and  Bevis 
had  been  placed  with  him  as  tutor  and  companion.  A  mother 
would  have  been  drawn  nearer  to  her  son  by  Ms  misfortune, 
a  crowd  of  sympathies  would  have  been  awakened  between 
them.  But  the  mercantile  father  in  India  grew  afraid  of 
Horace  after  his  affliction.  What  could  he  do  with  a  blind 
son  ?  He  pitied  himself  for  the  wreck  of  his  ambition. 

My  father  had  not  seen  this  cousin  since  he  became  blind ; 
but  having  been  requested  in  a  letter  from  the  father,  Mr. 
VTane,  to  visit  him,  he  made  an  offer  of  coming  down  to  the 
Hill  Farm  for  a  few  weeks  on  his  return  from  a  long  cruise  in 
the  Magician. 

He  got  up  by  daybreak  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival, 
and  took  an  early  stroll  around  the  neighborhood  in  search  of 
a  trout  stream.  He  was  struck  with  the  peculiar  nature  of  the 
country,  so  sombre  on  the  moorland,  so  smiling  in  the  valley. 
The  cottages  were  placed  so  far  apart  as  to  be  scarcely  neigh- 


264  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORT. 

borly,  and  were  generally  built  upon  the  edge  of  the  heath  to 
secure  facilities  for  peat  digging.  The  peasants  whom  he  met, 
clad  in  green  smocks,  were  far  from  prepossessing — of  the 
earth,  earthy — scarcely  superior,  save  in  powers  of  mischief, 
to  the  beasts  under  their  care. 

"  Mr.  Bevis,"  he  said,  during  breakfast,  "  have  you  any 
society  about  here?  Anybody  living  in  any  hall,  or  great 
house  in  the  village  ?  Any  clergyman's  family  ?" 

"  We  have  an  old  clergyman  and  an  old  wife — their  united 
ages  are  one  hundred  and  twenty-five ;  but  you  may  see  to- 
night all  the  society  we  can  rake  and  scrape  in  Sandrock,  or 
its  neighborhood,  for  these  old  folks  have  been  so  obliging  as 
to  ask  us  to  a  party." 

"  Are  there  likely  to  be  any  pretty  girls  there  ?"  said  my 
father. 

"  By  Jove  !  I  should  think  not !"  replied  the  other.  "  Yet, 
stay — do  you  see  that  cottage  on  the  top  of  the  high  sand-cliff? 
— there  is  a  handsome  woman  lives  there — a  mysterious  lady !" 

"  How  so  ?  how  came  she  here  ?"  said  my  father. 

"  It  was  a  small  place,  and  out  of  repair.  A  man  built  it  for 
himself,  and  found  it  was  too  lonely ;  so  he  let  it  cheap  to  a 
Captain  Talbot,  of  your  service,  who  has  had  a  stroke  of  para- 
lysis, and  has  nothing  but  his  half-pay  on  which  to  support  a 
large  family,  one  member  of  which  is  this  person.  She  is 
very  pretty ;  she  dresses  in  black,  and  passes  for  a  widow. 
The  girls  say  she  is  their  sister,  but  they  are  mysteriously  un- 
communicative about  her." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?"  said  my  father  ;  "  what  do  you  call 
her  ?" 

"  There  was  the  difficulty.  Amabel  is  her  Christian  name, 
and  it  was  long  before  we  heard  of  any  other.  Some  people, 
speaking  of  her,  used  to  say  Miss  Talbot,  some  Mrs.  Talbot, 
some  Mrs.  Bell ;  but  she  gave  herself  out  at  length  to  be  a 
Mrs.  Leonard." 

"  How  very  strange !     Do  people  visit  her  ?" 

"  There  is  no  v  isiting  in  this  retired  district.  I  call  there,  of 
course,  to  see  th*-,  Captain,  and  I  cannot  keep  Horace  away." 

"  An  anomah  us  person  of  that  kind  must  be  very  disagree- 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  265 

able  in  so  small  a  society,"  began  my  father.  As  he  was  say 
ing  this,  he  caught  sight  of  the  face  of  Horace,  who,  habitually 
late  for  breakfast,  was  just  opening  the  door.  Bevis  observed 
it  too,  and  dropping  the  subject  of  Amabel,  at  once  made  some 
remarks  about  the  aspect  of  the  country,  and  the  prospects  of 
the  weather. 

No  sooner  was  breakfast  done,  than  Horace  dragged  his 
cousin  by  the  arm  upon  the  terrace,  overlooking  many  miles 
of  cultivated  meadow-land  and  heath,  and  asked  him,  with 
some  vehemence,  what  Bevis  had  been  telling  him. 

"  He  was  speaking  of  Mrs.  Leonard  when  I  came  in,"  said 
he  ;  "I  know  by  the  tone  of  his  voice  he  was  speaking  of  Mrs. 
Leonard." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  my  father,  smiling,  "  he  did  mention  that 
mysterious  lady.  I  should  consider  any  person  of  that  sort  no 
advantage  to  the  neighborhood." 

"  Of  that  sort !"  said  Horace,  fiercely  ;  "  Bevis  shows  him- 
self the  villain — the  scoundrel — the  liar,  that  he  is,  if  he  has 
dared  to  breathe  a  word  against  that  angel — I  tell  you  what  it 
is,"  he  continued,  "  Bevis  wants  to  be  revenged.  There  is  no 
love  lost  between  them,  I  can  tell  him.  He  made  love  to  her 
when  she  first  came  here,  but  since  he  found  it  would  not  do, 
he  has  lost  no  opportunity  of  slandering  and  annoying  her. 
He  pays  court  to  Olivia  Talbot  under  her  very  eyes,  and  says 
when  Amabel  opposes  his  visits,  it  is  from  jealousy." 

"  But,  Horace,  small  as  your  experience  of  the  world  has 
been,  you  must  own  that  the  position  of  this  woman  is  equivo- 
cal, which  no  woman's  position  can  be,  unless  something  is 
wrong." 

"  Wait  till  you  see  her,"  exclaimed  Horace.  "  See  her  your- 
self, Theo.  See  how  nobly  she  sustains  herself  in  her  trying  situ- 
ation ;  see  how  she  awes  Bevis ;  see  her  with  that  hateful  girl 
he  flirts  with.  Or  see  her  with  the  poor,  or  with  her  paralysed 
old  father,  or  the  children,  or  talk  to  her  yourself — just  let  her 
get  over  you  the  least  influence — " 

"  Why,  Horace,  my  dear  fellow,  she  is  getting  an  influence 
over  you,  I  perceive,"  said  my  father. 

"  An  influence !  I  should  think  so  !  An  influence  !  It  does 
12 


266  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

me  more  good  to  sit  an  hour  at  her  side,  than  all  the  sermons 
Dr.  Frost  ever  knocked  out  of  his  red  cushion.  To  see  such 
an  example  of  suffering  patience,  of  the  beauty  of  holiness, 
sweetens  the  heart,  and  mine  was  full  of  bitterness  before  I 
knew  her." 

"  My  dear  cousin,"  began  my  father,  "  I  have  no  doubt  she 
is  a  woman  of  great  art." 

But  Horace  did  not  hear  him. 

"I  feel  as  if,  now  that  I  have  known  her,  my  life  had 
a  motive.  Life,  since  my  blindness,  has  had  little  to  offer  me ; 
but,  I  shall  not  have  lived  in  vain,  if  I  can  do  something  to 
lighten  her  burdens.  I  am  living  for  her — living  in  the  hope 
that  some  day  I  may  do  something  to  make  her  happier, — 
something  to  serve  her — something — were  it  only  to  make  her 
feel  that  there  is  somebody  to  care  for — and  admire — and 
sympathize  with  her.  That  helps — a  thought  of  that  kind 
helps,  you  know.  But,  Theodosius,"  here  he  changed  his  tone, 
"  there  is  so  little  I  can  do  by  reason  of  my  blindness.  She 
leads  a  hard  life  here.  I  thought  that  you  would  be  her 
friend — would  protect  her.  from  my  tutor.  I  do  what  I  can ; 
but,  sometimes  my  blood  boils  to  find  I  cannot  aid  her,  and  if 
I  had  not  a  little  self-command,  for  her  sake,  I  should  knock 
him  down." 

"  The  poor  woman  shall  have  fair  play,  as  far  as  I  have  any 
influence,"  said  my  father.  "  But,  Horace," 

"  Hush  !"  exclaimed  Horace,  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips,  foi 
he  heard  the  step  of  Bevis  coming  towards  them. 

Very  much  disturbed  for  his  young  cousin's  sake,  by  all  he 
had  been  hearing,  my  father  sauntered  forth  alone,  amidst  the 
highways  and  the  hedges.  It  must  be  allowed — indeed,  it  has 
been  said,  that  my  father  had  in  his  disposition  an  undue  allow- 
ance of  the  love  of  approbation.  The  impression  that  he  made 
on  others,  was  always  a  consideration  with  him.  On  the 
present  occasion,  when  he  thought  of  Horace,  he  was  clearly  of 
the  opinion  that  the  poor  fellow  had  been  getting  strangely 
duped  by  a  woman  of  equivocal  character,  and,  possibly,  of  very 
considerable  powers  of  mind.  But,  when  he  remembered 
Horace's  wish  that  he  should  know  and  aid  her,  a  degree  of 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  267 

complacency  entered  into  his  contemplations.  He,  a  man  three- 
and-twenty  years  of  age,  was  better  fitted  than  a  youth  like 
Horace,  for  intercourse  with  such  a  person.  He  stood  in  no 
danger  from  her  arts,  or  her  position.  He  even  might,  perhaps, 
be  of  essential  use  to  her.  So  thinking,  he  walked,  rod  in  hand, 
along  the  winding  banks  of  the  small  river  that  has  a  name 
upon  our  maps,  but  is  no  broader  than  a  trout  stream.  On  its 
banks,  fishing  patiently  for  minnows,  at  a  spot  opposite  that  part 
of  the  high  sand  cliff  where  the  martins  have  a  colony,  sat  a 
small  boy  with  a  rude  rod  made  out  of  a  hop-pole.  My  father 
sauntered  up  to  him  to  ask  some  questions  about  the  stream, 
and  the  kind  of  fish  in  it. 

"  Minnows,  gudgeon,  perch,  bream,  and  occasionally  a  pike," 
was  the  answer.  "  Such  a  one,"  pursued  the  boy,  "  as  old 
farmer  Caesar  caught  a  year  ago  about  here.  Amabel  said,  that 
if  we  had  lived  in  a  less  out  of  the  way  spot,  it  would  have 
gone  into  the  paper." 

My  father  perceived  that  the  boy  was  handsome,  and  evi- 
dently a  gentleman's  son. 

"  And  who  is  Amabel  ?"  he  said,  throwing  his  line  into  the 
water. 

"  Amabel  is  my  sister." 

"  A  favorite  sister  ?"  said  my  father,  hesitating,  however,  to 
question  him. 

"  Oh !  I  am  very — very  fond  of  her,"  said  Ned.  "  Every- 
body is,  except  Mr.  Bevis  and  Olivia." 

"  Ah  !  indeed,"  said  my  father,  pondering  this  reply,  or  intent 
upon  his  fishing. 

"  Hurra !"  cried  Ned,  "  you  have  a  bite !  Haul  him  in — haul 
him  in,  sir !" 

My  father  was  on  his  feet  at  once.  The  fish  was  large,  and 
strained  the  slender  line  ;  he  let  it  out  to  give  him  play.  Away 
darted  the  fish  down  the  stream,  Ned  and  my  father  after  it ;  till 
after  a  run  of  about  two  hundred  yards  along  the  winding  banks 
of  the  moat-like  little  river,  the  prize,  exhausted,  allowed  him- 
self to  be  hauled  in  opposite  a  small  garden,  with  terraces 
scooped  out  of  the  cliff,  sloping  down  to  the  water's  edge,  with 
a  rustic  seat  and  bower  immediately  upon  the  bank  of  the  river. 


268  AMABEL;   A  FAMILY  HISTORY. 

"  That  is  Amabel,"  said  Ned,  "  and  there's  my  father." 

Theodosius  looked  up  from  the  large  pike  he  had  been  land- 
ing. On  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  in  the  rustic  seat,  sat 
an  old  and  feeble  man,  attended  by  a  graceful  woman,  dressed 
in  black ;  no  longer  in  the  fresh  bloom  of  girlhood,  but  with 
that  kind  of  beauty  which  makes  its  appeal  to  our  sympathy. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  he  should  recognise  her.  He  had 
seen  her  figure  only  at  Foxley,  on  that  night  when  he  and  Cap- 
tain Warner  watched  the  declaration  of  Ferdinand  through  the 
window  of  the  conservatory. 

"Sister,  look  here,  what  a  one  Lieut.  Ord  has  caught," 
shouted  Ned  across  the  water.  "  It's  as  big  as  the  one  Tom 
Caesar  got.  See  here !" 

Snatching  up  the  fish,  he  set  his  foot  upon  an  iron  chain, 
hung  slack  across  the  stream,  to  mark  the  boundary  of  the  fish- 
ing privileges  of  the  property ;  and,  with  the  help  of  the  long 
hop-pole,  scrambled  across  the  river. 

"  Edward,  don't !"  cried  Amabel,  "  don't,  Ned,  pray,  don't. 
Prevent  him,  Mr.  Ord." 

She  colored  to  the  eyes,  as  she  addresed  him.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  stop  the  daring  boy ;  he  and  the  pike  were  safe 
across  the  water. 

"  We  will  have  this  with  wine  sauce,  my  dear,"  cried  the  old 
man.  "  Port  wine  sauce.  You  can  teach  Sarah  to  dress  it.  I 
think  a  pike  very  good  eating — a  little  fish  is  a  treat  to  me, 
now." 

"  Hush,  father ; — Ned  did  not  catch  the  pike ;  it  belongs  to 
Mr.  Ord." 

"  I  hope,  madam,  you  will  do  me  the  honor  of  accepting  it," 
said  my  father,  who,  the  river  not  being  at  that  spot  ten  feet  in 
width,  distinctly  heard  the  conversation. 

"  And  Amabel,"  said  Capt.  Talbot,  "  ask  him  to  come  and 
dine." 

"  My  father  hopes,  sir,  you  will  come  to-morrow  and  help  us 
eat  your  fish,"  said  Amabel. 

My  father  assented. 

"  Are  you  going  to  fish  any  more,  Mr.  Ord  ?"  said  Ned. 

"  I  shall  try  my  luck  again,  if  I  am  not  a  trespasser." 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  269 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Amabel.     "  Our  fish  is  not  preserved." 

"  There  is  better  fishing,"  said  the  old  man,  "  in  the  heath 
ponds." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Ord,  I  can  show  you,  sir.  Amabel,  may  I  go  with 
Mr.  Ord  ?"  cried  Ned  across  the  water. 

"  Provided  Mr.  Ord  will  not  object  to  looking  after  you.  I 
shall  be  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Ord,"  she  said,  on  receiving 
his  assurance  that  he  would  take  care  of  little  Pickle.  "  His 
brother  Joe  is  ill  in  bed,  and  to-day  I  have  no  time  to  see  after 
his  studies." 


CHAPTER  HI. 

But  when  the  days  of  golden  dreams  were  perished, 

And  e'en  despair  seemed  powerless  to  destroy, 
Then  did  I  learn  how  existence  could  be  cherished, 

Strengthened  and  fed  without  the  aid  of  joy. 

ELLIS  BELI. 

AT  an  early  hour  in  the  evening — an  hour  at  which  no  fashion- 
able individual  will  confess  that  he  has  dined,  Bevis,  Horace, 
and  my  father  walked  from  the  Hill  Farm  to  the  parsonage  : 
the  latter  very  smart,  wearing  new  white  kid  gloves. 

The  parsonage  was  one  wing  of  an  old  convent,  owing  its  pre- 
sent picturesque  effect,  not  to  any  original  architectural  beauty, 
but  to  the  tooth  of  time  and  the  growth  of  ivy.  It  was  an  un- 
comfortable residence  enough,  ill  arranged  and  very  draughty, 
with  a  neat  little  modern  flower-garden  in  front,  and  with 
a  view  of  the  churchyard  behind.  The  living  was  a  very  poor 
one,  a  few  acres  of  glebe  land  scarcely  fit  for  cultivation,  £80 
a  year,  and  the  right  of  cutting  turf  from  the  neighboring 
common.  The  population  of  the  parish  was  scattered.  The 
village  might  have  contained  a  couple  of  hundred  inhabitants, 
and  rather  more  than  an  equal  number  of  other  parishioners 
were  dispersed  over  an  area  of  heath  country  ten  miles  broad 
by  four  and  a  half  long.  These  people  were  many  of  them 
clustered  in  small  hamlets,  wherever  a  spring  of  water,  or  a 


270  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

patch  of  better  land  on  an  edge  of  the  common  seemed  to 
invite  a  settlement.  It  was  impossible  for  the  majority  of  these 
persons  ever  to  attend  the  church,  and  nearly  equally  impossi- 
ble for  the  clergyman  to  become  acquainted  with  their  wants, 
even  had  he  been  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  an  active  man. 
But,  Dr.  Frost  was  "  in  years,"  as  his  people  expressed  it ;  very 
corpulent,  and  at  no  time  very  active.  He  found  it  impossible 
even  with  the  help  of  his  broad  gauge  tax-cart  and  fat  pony, 
to  keep  a  proper  pastoral  supervision  over  the  flock  confided 
to  him.  In  consequence  of  which  praying  tailors  and  preach- 
ing weavers  troubled  the  outskirts  of  his  parish,  and  the  cause 
of  dissent  gained  ground  there.  To  the  day  of  his  death  I  don't 
believe  Dr.  Frost  ever  attributed  this  defection  to  the  right  cause. 

Nearer  at  home  worse  evils  than  dissent  made  their  appear- 
ance, even  in  the  village.  Very  early  marriages  had  become 
the  fashion  amongst  the  peasantry ;  and  every  description  of 
evil  was  the  result.  The  boy  and  girl  united  at  fifteen,  found, 
together  with  the  cares  of  an  increasing  family,  a  great  want  of 
mutual  assimilation.  In  no  parish  were  wives  more  brutally 
beaten,  conjugal  infidelities  more  frequent,  or  female  honor 
less  secure.  The  doctor  attributed  all  these  evils  to  dissent,  and 
continued  conscientiously  to  preach  very  dry  sermons,  in  a  very 
cold  church,  in  which  "  our  venerable  establishment"  figured 
amidst  exhortations  against  heresy,  Atheism,  Popery,  and  schism. 

When  Amabel  came  into  the  village,  she  found  that  by 
reason  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Frost's  infirmities,  there  was  plenty 
of  work  for  her  to  do.  She  was  anything  but  one  of  those 
officious  ladies  who  seek  to  govern  all  things  in  a  parish — 
priest,  churchwardens,  and  people.  Had  there  been  any  oppo- 
sition offered  to  her  efforts,  I  am  afraid,  so  meek-spirited  was 
she  in  the  service  of  the  public  at  that  period,  that  her  preten- 
sions to  do  good  would  have  been  humbly  withdrawn.  But 

encouraged  by  the  advice  of  the  Vicar  of  S ,  from  whom 

she  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Dr.  Frost,  she  became 
in  some  sort  a  lay  curate  to  the  doctor.  She  went  about  from 
house  to  house,  making  herself  familiar  with  the  character  of 
the  inhabitants,  administering,  as  far  as  she  was  able,  to  their 
wants,  and  whenever  the  case  was  urgent,  bringing  it  to  the 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  2Y1 

notice  of  the  Rector.  Never  had  that  ecclesiastic  found  his 
clerical  character  so  looked  up  to  in  his  parish,  never  before 
had  he  taken  so  much  interest  in  his  people. 

In  return  Dr.  Frost  undertook  to  give  Edward  a  daily  lesson 
in  Latin.  The  labor  of  this  instruction  fell  chiefly  upon  Ama- 
bel, who  was  careful  to  cause  the  task  to  be  well  studied.  But 
with  all  this,  it  was  a  great  assistance  to  her  to  have  a  superior 
authority  out  of  her  own  circle  for  whom  the  daily  lesson  must 
be  prepared. 

How  she  accomplished  all  this,  her  home,  her  parish,  and 
her  scholastic  duties,  I  confess  myself  unable  to  understand. 
She  herself,  when  questioned  on  the  subject,  said  she  must 
have  broken  down  at  every  point,  had  she  permitted  any  press 
of  business  to  interfere  with  her  habit  of  walking  alone.  Two 
hours  a  day  she  cast  off  the  cares  of  home,  and  with  Barba 
and  a  rough  Newfoundland  puppy  crossed  the  heath  in  all 
directions,  breathing  the  fresh  free  air  of  the  moorland,  the 
object  of  each  walk  being  generally  a  mission  of  love  to  some 
poor  cottage. 

Bevis,  Horace,  and  my  father  reached  Dr.  Frost's  parsonage 
before  the  Talbots  arrived.  The  old  tax-cart  and  the  asthma- 
tic pony  had  been  sent  to  bring  the  captain,  and  the  family 
came  together  into  the  room ;  Ned,  Annie,  and  Olivia  having 
walked  by  a  short  cut,  while  Amabel  and  her  step-father  in 
the  doctor's  cart,  came  round  by  the  road.  Amabel  was 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  white  rose  in  her  bosom. 

There  were  present  two  Miss  Peytons  from  the  Holt,  the 
daughters  of  the  Ranger ;  a  young  curate  from  the  next  parish, 
and  several  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  better  class  of 
farmers. 

My  father  watched  Amabel.  He  noticed  that  the  greetings 
she  exchanged  with  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Frost  were  very  cordial,  arid 
that  she  drew  the  former  aside  and  entered  into  animated  dis- 
course with  him.  Hovering  round  a  table  on  which  books 
were  spread,  he  caught  occasional  fragments  of  their  earnest 
conversation. 

"  I  am  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  favor  the  separation 


272  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

of  man  and  wife,"  she  said,  "still  there  might  be  occasions.  .  .  . 
I  wanted  your  advice  before  I  gave  my  own,  doctor." 

Here  the  doctor  being  called  off  by  his  wife,  my  father 
quitted  the  old  albums,  and  with  a  sort  of  awkward  hesitation, 
asked  leave  of  Amabel  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  her. 
Her  manner  was  embarrassed,  and  after  expressing  a  polite 
pleasure  in  meeting  him  that  evening,  the  conversation  came 
to  a  full  stop. 

"  You  seem  au  fait  at  the  business  of  the  parish,"  said  my 
father,  blurting  out  in  desperation  the  thought  that  was  upper- 
most in  his  mind. 

Amabel  looked  a  little  uncomfortable.  "  If  you  have  heard 
any  of  my  conversation  with  Dr.  Frost,"  she  said,  "  I  fear  it 
may  have  given  you  a  wrong  idea  of  my  opinions.  I  brought 
him  a  case  of  conscience.  There  is  a  couple  in  this  parish, 
where  conjugal  felicity  is  extremely  rare,  who  have  led  a  cat 
and  dog  life  to  the  scandal  of  the  neighborhood.  The  man 
has  lately  received  encouragement  to  join  a  brother  in  one  of 
the  midland  counties,  and  his  wife,  who  is  a  capable  woman, 
has  the  promise  of  a  place.  '  To  be  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the 
question.'  Shall  I  counsel  the  separation  ?  What  advice  do 
you  give  me,  Mr.  Ord  ?" 

"  I  should  say,"  said  my  father,  "  that  the  sooner  they  parted 
company  the  better." 

"  You  think,  then,"  she  replied,  "  that  a  temporary  separa- 
tion of  husband  and  wife  may  teach  a  lesson  of  forbearance, 
which,  in  an  inflamed  state  of  their  relations,  they  are  not 
likely  to  learn  ?  You  may  be  right.  Everything  that  now 
goes  wrong  with  either,  is  attributed  by  the  wife  to  the  hus- 
band, by  the  husband  to  the  wife." 

"  Mr.  Ord,  will  you  take  a  partner  for  the  next  dance !"  said 
old  Mrs  Frost,  bustling  up  to  him.  -"  My  dear,  will  your  good 
father  play  his  rub  ?" 

Amabel  walked  up  to  the  card-table,  and  took  her  seat 
beside  the  captain.  He  loved  to  hold  a  hand  at  whist,  and  to 
play  his  cards  by  her  direction. 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Frost  rattled  wonderful  tunes  out  of  her  old 
piano.  Set  quadrilles  had  then  lately  been  introduced  into 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  273 

England  :  not  quadrilles  such  as  we  now  dance  them,  monoto- 
nous and  constitutional,  but  quadrilles  of  anarchy.  Quadrilles 
with  pousset  at  the  corners,  right  hand  and  left  all  round, 
ladies'  chain,  and  mouline  des  dames. 

As  soon  as  the  rubber  ended,  Captain  Talbot  rose ;  and, 
taking  his  step-daughter's  chair,  placidly  contented  himself 
with  looking  on.  Amabel  at  once  offered  to  relieve  Mrs.  Frost 
at  the  piano.  She  was  not  a  great  musical  performer,  but  she 
played  quadrille  music  in  perfect  time,  with  indefatigable  good 
humor.  Horace  sat  by  the  piano,  and,  at  intervals,  they 
exchanged  a  few  words.  My  father,  not  so  well  accustomed  as 
the  rest  of  the  corps  de  ballet  to  make  use  of  her  musical  exer- 
tions, came  up  at  last,  and  asked  if  she  were  tired. 

For  some  time  she  had  had  a  flagging  look,  and  her  bands 
trembled. 

"  I  am  not  easily  tired,"  she  answered  evasively,  with  a  smile. 
"  I  am  no  skilful  performer,  and  1  consider  it  my  vocation  to  be 
a  useful  one." 

Here  Horace,  who  had  exhibited  symptoms  of  uneasiness, 
drew  his  cousin  aside.  "  Don't  you  see  she  is  tired  to  death  ?" 
said  he.  "  Ask  one  of  the  Miss  Peytons.  They  play  well 
enough  to  dance  by.  Either  of  them  will  play,  if  you  ask  her." 

Acting  on  this  hint,  my  father  placed  at  the  piano  his  late 
partner,  and  then,  turning  to  Amabel,  invited  her  to  dance 
a  quadrille. 

"  Yes,  Amabel,  we  want  a  vis-a-vis.  Here,"  said  Olivia, 
"  opposite  to  me." 

"  Have  you  been  k»ng  in  this  part  of  the  country  ?"  said  my 
father,  when  the  side  couples  were  performing  the  first  figure. 

"  Long  enough  to  get  sincerely  attached  to  its  strange,  wild, 
moorland  scenery.  I  suppose,  as  you  came  down,  its  desolation 
surprised  you.  In  winter,  the  cold  is  intense.  Were  it  not  for 
the  abundance  of  peat,  we  could  hardly  live  here." 

"  Do  not  you  find  the  people  stupid  and  debased  ?  I  can 
hardly  understand  their  speech,"  continued  my  father. 

"  I  had  acquired  very  considerable  familiarity  with  their 
character  and  rural  dialect  during  the  year  before  we  camo 
here." 

12* 


274  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Were  you  living  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

"  About  fifteen  miles  from  here,  at  S .  Have  you  been 

long  ashore  ?" 

"  Only  a  few  weeks,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  just  come  home 
from  the  Mediterranean." 

"From  cruising  in  what  ship?"  she  said,  making  a 
balancez. 

"  The  Magician  frigate,"  he  answered,  turning  her  round. 

("  Gentlemen,  change  partners"  Miss  Peyton  cried.) 

"  Has  the  Magician  come  home  ?"  said  Amabel. 

"  No ;  she  stays  abroad  a  year  longer." 

"  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  cruise  ?" 

"Very.     We  were 'OH  a  crack  station." 

"  A  pleasant  cruise,  depends,  I  suppose,  less  on  the  cruising 
ground  than  the  officers  and  Captain." 

(Pousset  again.) 

"  I  had  sailed  with  Captain  Warner  before-  He  is  my  cou- 
sin," said  my  father.  "  This  time  I  had  little  to  say  to  him.  He 
was  sadder,  quieter,  and  less  genial  than  usual." 

"  Sadder ;  quieter ;  less  genial,"  she  repeated,  dwelling  upon 
the  words.  "  Was  his  health  impaired  ?" 

"No— but," 

"  But  ? — What  were  you  going  to  say  ?" 

("Forward  and  back — cross  over")  Amabel  and  my  father 
performed  their  parts  in  the  quadrille,  and  returned  to  their 
places. 

"  Don't  spare  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  What  were  you 
going  to  say  ?" 

"  That  Capt.  Warner's  wife  fell  under  suspicion  ;  and  as  he  is 
a  man  of  quick  feelings,  it  seemed  almost  impossible  for  him  to 
rally  from  his  distress  of  mind." 

("  Ealancez.  forward.  Turn  your  vis-a-vis.  Demie  queue 
de  chat") 

It  was  fortunate  for  Amabel  she  was  called  to  dance.  Her 
cheeks  flushed, 

And  troubled  blood  through  her  pale  face  was  scene 
To  come  and  goe  with  tydings  from  the  heart, 
A«  it  a  running  messenger  had  been. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  _'75 

Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  It  was  all  she  could  do  on 
rejoining  her  partner,  to  resume  the  conversation. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  have  not  judged  her  harshly  ?  It 
is  so  difficult  to  know  the  truth.  Many  a  true  woman  (I  speak 
from  my  experience)  has  been  put  by  circumstances  so  much 
in  the  wrong.'' 

"  I  cannot  judge  for  you,  unless " 

"  Do  not  let  us  talk  of  myself.  Let  us  continue  the  conver- 
sation on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Warner.  In  this  very  Byron  con- 
troversy, which  is  shaking  Europe  from  one  end  to  the  other, 
how  quick  we  are  to  judge — how  little  can  we,  any  of  us,  know 
of  the  personal  affinities  of  the  married  pair  or  the  real  progress 
of  the  quarrel." 

"  I  wish  the  woman  who  wronged  my  cousin,  could  see  him 
pacing  his  own  quarter-deck  of  an  evening.  If  she  ever  had  a 
spark  of  love  for  him,  his  listless  melancholy  face  would  be 
punishment  enough  for  her,"  was  my  father's  reply. 

Amabel  returned  to  the  charge.  "  I  see,"  she  said,  "  you  are 
determined  to  condemn  her ;  and  that  she  may  be  guilty,  I  have 
no  disposition  to  deny.  But,  is  your  idea  of  the  sanctity  of  the 
marriage  vow  so  limited  that  you  will  not  admit  any  notion  of 
its  breach,  short  of  what  society  has  pronounced  the  unpardona- 
ble sin  ?" 

At  this  moment  the  company  was  summoned  round  the 
sandwich  tray.  Amabel  and  her  partner  were  forced  to  join 
the  others.  Their  conversation  passed  to  more  general  topics. 
He  asked  her  about  Scott- and  Byron,  and  at  length  even  con- 
fessed that  he  himself  wrote  verses,  and  had  brought  down  to 
the  Hill  Farm  a  MS.  volume,  nearly  complete,  something  after 
the  order  of  the  "  Hours  of  Idleness."  Emboldened  by  her 
ready  sympathy,  and  her  evident  appreciation  of  poetry,  he 
ventured  to  hope  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  submit  to  her 
some  of  those  verses. 

She  had,  as  I  have  elsewhere  said,  a  beautiful  intuition  of 
sympathy,  which  won  her  almost  at  once  the  confidence  of 
those  brought  into  contact  with  her.  She  that  night  fixed  a 
spell  upon  my  father ;  and  no  doubt  some  of  my  readers  would 
be  glad  to  learn  at  secondhand,  the  magic  secret  of  her  power. 


276  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

I  regret  I  cannot  gratify  them.  This  winsome  art  of  inviting 
confidence  is  the  pearl  of  gifts,  in  the  bestowal  of  such  fairy 
friends  as  shower  presents  on  the  infant  pillow. 

There  is  an  incalculable  influence  in  interest,  there  is  a 
charm  conveyed  by  manner,  there  is  a  personal  potency  in 
presepce  more  powerful  than  mere  eloquence  of  words. 

My  father  talked  to  her  of  his  verses  and  his  hopes;  she 
entered  into  his  feelings ;  she  returned  him  his  own  thoughts 
enriched  in  their  transit  through  her  mind  ;  she  made  him  feel 
that  all  he  was  saying  had  to  her  a  living  interest,  and  he  did 
not  quit  her  side  till  he  put  her  into  the  tax-cart  with  Captain 
Talbot.  He  then  walked  home  in  the  bright  light  of  a  full 
moon,  with  Horace,  Bevis,  Ned,  Annie,  and  Olivia.  The  coarse 
flirtation  of  the  latter  with  the  tutor,  inexpressibly  disgusted 
him.  He  had  been  wandering  in  purer,  higher  realms  of 
thought,  and  the  conversation  around  him  brought  him  down 
to  earth  again.  He  began  thinking  over  his  own  verses.  He 
meditated  on  what  favorable  specimens  of  his  muse  he  should 
submit  to  her  consideration.  He  was  so  eager  to  secure  her 
good  opinion  of  his  verses,  that  he  could  hardly  bear  the  delay 
that  must  ensue  before  her  verdict  for  or  against  their  committal 
to  the  press,  could  be  secured. 

He  lagged  behind,  repeating  to  himself  select  fragments  of  his 
poetry,  and  particularly  two  stanzas  written  several  days 
before.  He  was  so  pleased  with  the  effect,  on  repetition, 
that  he  took  out  his  pencil,  and  leaning  against  one  of  the  posts 
of  the  footbridge  that  spans  the  little  river,  copied  down  the 
stanzas  on  the  back  of  an  old  letter. 

"  Give  it  me  !"  cried  Olivia,  as  he  rejoined  the  party.  "  This 
horrid  man  declares  you  are  a  poet,  and  have  been  writing 
verses  to  the  moon.  Give  them  to  me !  I  want  them  for  -mv 
album." 

"  It  is  not  for  you,  Miss  Talbot,"  said  my  father,  putting  the 
paper  into  Amabel's  hand.  She  was  standing  in  the  road, 
before  the  cottage. 

"  I  have  copied  down  this  little  thing,"  he  said.  "  I  wrote  it 
the  other  day.  Perhaps  you  will  look  at  it.  It  was  suggested 
ty  a  few  words  in  a  letter  from  my  Captain.  It  bears  a  little 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  277 

upon  one  of  the  subjects  we  were  speaking  of  this  evening. 
There  is  a  line  or  two  in  it  which,  perhaps,  you  may  find 
rather  powerful." 

"  I  shall  have  time  to  ponder  it  to-night,"  she  said.     "  Our 

youngest  boy  is  ill,  and  I  am  going  to  sit  up  with  him." 
******** 

"  Rather  powerful  /''  Forgive  me,  my  dear  father — you 
well  know  how  fondly  I  have  always  loved  you,  how  every 
word  of  your  wisdom  has  sunk  into  your  daughter's  heart,  how 
highly  I  estimate  your  rare  good  sense,  your  cultivated  facul- 
ties, your  genial  powers  of  appreciation,  but  ....  I  cannot, 
here  or  elsewhere,  pay  my  tribute  to  your  muse.  Amabel 
herself  said,  when  I  questioned  her  upon  the  subject,  that  in  the 
days  in  which  you  chiefly  wrote,  society  was  afflicted  with  a 
flux  of  rhyme.  That  every  encouragement  was  given  to  the 
production  of  bosh  in  the  Annuals,  Poets'  Corners,  and  Ladies' 
Albums  then  in  fashion.  That  every  lady  invoked  the  spirit  of 
Letitia  Elizabeth  Landon,  and  every  collegian,  remembering 
that  Lord  Byron's  fame  and  genius  grew  like  the  bean  stalk, 
in  one  night,  planted  his  little  bean.  She  agreed  in  what  I 
ventured  to  remark,  that  "  ideas  are  now  shoving  mere  rhyme 
out  of  the  verse-market,  and  that  poetry  is  a  luxury  to  be  had 
good  or  not  at  all ;"  yet  remarked,  that  she  was  sorry  you 
had  ceased  to  write.  She  thought  it  was  our  fault — Edward's 
and  mine.  She  had  observed  you  had  never  been  prolific  in 
verse,  since  the  day  you  found  your  solemn  ode  on  the  March  of 
the  British  Army  to  Cabul,  covered  with  the  mock  heroic  illus- 
trations in  gay  paint  we  had  daubed  upon  the  margin.  She 
had  begun  with  the  intention  of  reproving,  but  at  the  recol- 
lection she  presented,  I  began  to  laugh,  and  she  found  the  laugh 
infectious. 

"  At  least,"  she  said,  abandoning  the  attempt  to  patronize 
your  poetry,  "  remember  this,  my  dear,  there  is  not  another 
poet  or  poetaster  that  .1  know  of,  who  would  have  borne  the 
discovery  of  your  impertinence  without  one  angry  look  or 
word.  There  are  not  many  people  in  this  world  as  good  as 
your  papa." 


278  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Je  IIP  sais  pas  si  j'aimais  cette  dame. 

Mais  je  sais  bien, 
Que  pour  avoir  un  regard  de  son  aine, 

Moi  pauvre  chien  ! 
J'aurais  gaiment  passe  dix  ans  au  bagne 

Sous  le  verrou 

VICTOR  HUGO.    Guitare 

"  RATHER  powerful,"  said  my  father,  and  rejoined  Horace  and 
his  tutor.  The  former  was  not  entirely  at  his  ease,  but  Bevis 
with  a  coarse  laugh  slapped  my  father  on  the  back,  and-  com- 
plimented him  on  having  made  such  progress  in  intimacy  with 
a  lady  who  had  generally  more  pride  than  she  could  afford 
to  keep  in  her  position.  \  '• 

"  Give  us  your  receipt,  old  boy.  Her  head  is  set  remark- 
ably well  upon  her  shoulders,  and  if  she  were  a  trifle  plumper 
in  the  bust,  her  figure  would  be  fine." 

My  father  drew  back  disgusted.     Horace  seized  his  arm. 

"  I  confess  I  am  astonished,  Theodosius,"  said  he.  "  She  is 
generally  very  reserved  with  strangers.  You  must  not-l>elieve 
one  word  of  what  Bevis  tells  you.  He  is  a  good-for.-notb.ing 
scoundrel ;  piqued  and  jealous." 

On  reaching  his  own  room  at  the  Hill  Farm,  my  father  took 
out  of  his  portfolio  all  his  poetical  effusions ;  read  them  over  ; 
re-copied  them,  blotted,  and  altered.  Putting  himself  in  her 
place  as  it  were,  he  calculated  the  effect  each  word  was  likely  to 
produce  on  her.  Whoever  has  known  anything  of  the  plea- 
sures of  composition,  knows  that  when  really  worked  up  to 
composing  pitch,  the  poet  is  under  the  influence  of  a  kind  of 
mental  intoxication ;  and  like  any  other  toper,  pays  for  his 
night's  excess  by  miserable  reaction,  and  by  utter  disgust  at  the 
heel-taps  of  the  bumpers  quaffed  sparkling  over  night  from  the 
Castalian  spring. 

He  was  excited  and  disquieted.  He  could  hardly  interpret 
his  emotion.  A  golden  glory  seemed  to  circle  the  whole  earth. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  279 

His  life  had  been  hitherto  (so  far  as  the  sympathies  and  the 
affections  were  concerned),  like  a  waste  howling  wilderness, 
parched  and  bare ;  a  wellspring  of  gladness  had  gushed  up  in 
its  midst,  and  there  was  a  sound  of  abundance  of  rain.  This 
feeling  communicated  its  sympathy  to  his  frame.  He  bared 
his  breast  to  the  night  wind,  and  breathed  free  draughts  of  the 
pure  air  scented  with  heather. 

At  a  distance  in  the  moonlight  the  tower  of  the  village 
church  was  faintly  visible ;  underneath  it,  a  mere  mass  of 
shadow,  stood  the  parsonage ;  in  it  the  room  where  she  had 
been.  It  was  holy  ground  in  his  sight ;  as  in  eastern  lands 
they  hallow  the  spots  once  pressed  according  to  tradition  by 
the  footsteps  of  an  angel.  The  mill  stream  with  its  murmur 
spoke  also  of  her ;  of  the  little  boy,  her  brother,  and  the  garden 
where  he  had  seen  her ;  and  further  off  upon  the  sand-cliff  the 
lights  of  her  cottage  were  gleaming  still. 

He  opened  wide  the  casement,  and  sprang  out  into  the 
night — her  light  his  beacon.  He  rendered  himself  no  account 
of  the  strange  interest  he  felt.  He  found  his  way  down  to  the 
river.  He  lingered  on  the  mill  bridge,  soothed  by  the  sound 
of  rushing  waters.  He  crossed  the  bridge,  and  made  his  way 
along  the  river's  edge  until  he  reached  her  garden.  He 
thought  that  he  should  like  to  stand  upon  the  spot  beside  the 
rustic  seat  where  she  had  stood.  He  lingered  there  but  a  few 
moments,  and  then,  as  from  that  position  he  could  not  see  the 
light  shining  from  the  window  of  the  room  where  his  heart  told 
him  that  she  must  be,  he  climbed  the  stone  steps  of  the  ter- 
race. At  the  top  was  a  very  low  wall  covered  with  ivy, 
separating  the  garden  from  a  narrow  lawn.  Suddenly  he 
paused,  and  stooped  behind  the  wall.  A  white  figure  made 
its  appearance  at  the  lighted  window,  and  looked  out  upon 
the  night.  There  was  a  passing  and  repassing  of  shadows  as 
if  other  persons  Avere  moving  in  the  chamber.  In  truth,  an  old 
woman  of  the  village,  whom  Amabel  had  hired  to  assist  her  in 
her  watch,  having  slept  during  the  early  part  of  the  night,  had 
risen  at  two  o'clock  to  take  her  place  by  little  Joseph's  bed. 
Soon  all  was  once  more  still  within  the  house,  and  my  father 
•was  just  about  to  issue  from  his  concealment,  when  a  door 


280  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

half  covered  by  an  ivy  porch  was  opened,  and  Amabel  herself 
came  out  upon  the  lawn.  A  large  white  shawl — a  cashmere 
shawl,  one  of  the  wedding  gifts  of  Captain  Warner,  was  thro\\n 
over  her  dress,  her  dark  hair  was  put  up  as  it  had  been  during 
the  evening,  and  Horace's  white  rose  was  still  in  her  bosom. 
She  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  excitement,  and  to 
have  come  out  into  the  open  air  to  calm  herself  by  the  sooth- 
ing influences  of  the  night.  In  the  bright  moonlight  of  the 
early  summer  night  he  could  see  her  eyes  gleam. 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  short  lawn,  moving  her  arms, 
and  clasping  her  hands  nervously ;  with  an  occasional  ejacula- 
tion, such  as :  "  Father  in  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  me !  Let 
this  long  trial  now  be  over.  I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God,  for 
this  new  hope !" 

These  words,  and  such  as  these,  my  father  heard  at  inter- 
vals, without  knowing  at  all  what  meaning  to  put  on  them. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  near  him  and  repeated  his  own  verses. 
Her  voice  was  thrilling,  and  yet  very  sweet.  Never  had  poetry 
sounded  so  musically  in  his  ears.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to 
restrain  himself  from  starting  up  almost  beneath  her  feet,  and 
terrifying  her  by  some  vehement  outburst  of  admiration. 

She  repeated  his  lines  again — this  time  with  une  larme  dans 
la  voix,  and  her  emotion  touched  the  poet's  heart,  and  made 
her  still  more  dear. 

The  lines  that  he  had  given  her,  called  forth  by  some  words 
in  a  letter  from  Captain  Warner,  had  been  selected  merely 
because  they  were  fresh  in  his  memory,  having  been  recently 
written,  and  were,  as  I  have  said,  part  of  a  favorite  copy  of 
verses.  Every  author  knows  the  tit-bits  of  his  own  literature. 
But  they  were  well  calculated  to  afford  nourishment  to  a  deal 
delusion.  She  had  never  been  able  to  persuade  herself  that  she 
had  made  no  impression  on  her  husband  by  her  letter.  For 
long  months  after  her  baby's  death,  she  continued  to  expect  an 
answer,  and  when  that  hope  was  given  up  another  hope  wa& 
born.  She  thought  he  would  come  back,  inquire  into  the  truth 
of  all  that  she  had  said,  seek  her  out  in  her  retreat,  forgive 
her,  bless  her,  and  restore  her  to  her  old  position.  But  the 
war  was  over.  Waterloo  had  long  been  fought  The  ships 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  281 

employed  were  ordered  home.  She  knew  he  could  have 
relinquished  his  command,  had  he  desired  it.  Nearly  three 
years  since  they  parted  had  now  passed,  but  still  she  would  not 
listen  to  that  inner  voice  which  said,  "  Lasciate  la  speranza." 

Suddenly  the  arrival  of  Theodosius  Ord,  her  husband's  cousin, 
his  lieutenant,  his  second  at  Foxley,  revived  her  drooping 
hopes,  and  quickened  into  certainty  her  expectation.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  he  might  possibly  not  recognise  her ;  that  he 
had  seen  her  but  once,  and  then  hardly  could  be  said  to  have 
seen  her  in  the  dim  light  of  the  conservatory  at  Foxley.  It  did 
not  occur  to  her,  that,  not  having  been  in  England  when  she 
married,  but  having  heard  of  her  repeatedly  in  Malta,  he  only 
knew  her  as  Miss  Belle  Karnac,  and  was  so  entirely  ignorant 
of  her  English  connexion,  that,  had  any  suspicions  crossed  his 
mind,  he  would  have  been  thrown  off  the  scent  by  her  relation- 
ship with  the  Talbots. 

She  believed  he  was  the  Ambassador  Extraordinary  of  her 
husband,  sent  to  make  a  report  upon  her  life  and  her  position. 
She  believed  that  Captain  Warner,  moved  by  her  representa- 
tions, was  disposed  to  raise  her  from  the  dust,  and  had  sent 
Theodosius  before  him,  crying  "  Repent,  for  the  hour  of  forgive- 
ness is  at  hand."  Every  word  said  by  my  father  on  that  night, 
had  strengthened  the  conviction.  His  eager  attentions  to  her- 
self, his  interest  in  her  concerns,  the  scarcely  civil  curiosity  with 
which  he  pressed  inquiry,  were  gladly  welcomed  as  the  grounds 
of  hope,  while  she  determined  carefully  to  avoid  any  direct 
betrayal  of  her  real  name  and  position,  remembering  but  too 
well  her  husband's  last  appeal  to  her.  But,  these  proofe  of  my 
father's  mission  were  corroborated,  strengthened,  and  surpassed 
by  the  nature  of  the  verses  he  had  given  her. 

Wife  '.  does  no  memory  haunt  thee  even  now 
Of  that  sad  day — accursed  let  it  be  ! — 
When  I  exchanged  for  thine  unhallowed  vow 
My  name — dishonored  now — dishonored  '. — and  by  thee  .' 


Woman  '.  does  soft  repentance  never  come — 

No  brief  compassion  for  the  eiile,  driven 
From  the  lone  roof  of  a  dishonored  home — 
A  home  that  might — O  God ! — through  thee  have  been  a  heaven? 


282  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

No  wonder  she  had  sought,  in  the  night  air,  to  cool  the  fever 
in  her  veins,  to  calm  the  storm  of  self-reproach,  of  pity,  admira- 
tion, tenderness,  and  love,  that  raged  within  her.  Oh !  how 
her  heart  went  out  in  her  loneliness  to  him  who  had  held  out 
to  her  his  golden  sceptre.  How  earnestly  she  desired  to  appear 
well  in  his  cousin's  eyes.  Since  she  had  entered  into  her  step- 
father's family,  she  had  been  struggling  to  regain  some  part  of 
the  position,  and  consideration,  and  self-respect  which  she  had 
lost.  She  had  taken  up  the  burden  of  duty  boldly.  There 
had  been  none  to  love  her,  to  bid  her  God  speed,  or  to 
encourage  her.  But  the  fulfilment  of  her  duty  awakened  new 
interests  in  her  heart  for  those  around  her.  True,  there  were 
none  to  appreciate  the  great  struggle  of  her  life,  to  enter  into 
her  higher  feelings,  but  there  were  some  to  love  her  as  they 
might.  And  all  her  troubles  she  carried  to  her  God. 

I  have  a  friend  who  has  penetrated  to  the  frozen  depths  of 
the  far  North,  and  has  seen  the  Ice  King  in  his  glittering  beauty. 
As  she  lay  in  her  warm  bed,  the  hoary  monarch  passed, 
shrivelling  with  his  icy  touch  the  mercury  in  the  glass,  two 
dozen  degrees  below  the  cypher.  She  has  seen  him  bearded 
with  icicles.  Plumes  nodd'ed  on  his  head  of  hemlock  boughs, 
tipped  with  fresh  fallen  snows.  The  raiment  that  he  wore  was 
white  and  glistening.  He  walked  upon  the  waters.  The  rapid 
river  shrank  some  fathoms  out  of  sight  when  he  smote  it  with 
his  mantle.  All  nature  wore  his  livery.  He  seemed  almost  a 
God. — The  glory  of  man  in  these  far,  frozen  lands,  is  to  prove 
himself  the  lord,  the  superior,  the  master  of  Winter.  To  walk 
into  his  very  teeth  unchilled  by  his  keen  breath,  and  indepen- 
dent of  his  power.  Even  thus  had  Amabel  become  the  mis- 
tress of  the  chill,  stern  sorrow  that  controlled  her  external  life. 
As  the  northern  inhabitant  watches  winter  from  the  windows 
of  his  warm  abode,  he  learns  to  perceive  that  the  very  power 
that  has  hidden  the  loveliness  of  nature  from  his  sight,  has  glo- 
ries of  its  own.  As  sunlight  falls  upon  the  landscape,  every 
twig  of  every  leafless  tree  sparkles  with  crystallines.  As  he 
gazes  on  the  buds  and  blossoms  nipped  and  blighted  by  the 
frost,  he  finds  each  closely  shrined  in  glittering  ice ;  and  shadows 
have  their  most  glorious  beauty  when  cast  by  God's  own  sun- 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  283 

light  on  the  pure  untrodden  snow.  No  winds  on  such  still 
days  of  extreme  frost  bring  icy  terrors  to  the  fur-clad  breast. 
So  in  the  stern  reign  of  her  now  fixed  and  settled  sorrow,  petty 
griefs  were  not  brought  home  to  her.  She  had  so  strengthened 
herself  by  acquiescence,  to  endure  the  great  reality  of  grief,  that 
smaller  troubles  could  not  harm.  She  was  almost  ready  even 
to  sport  at  times  with  her  own  sorrow,  to  find  a  beauty  in  the 
tears  she  shed,  in  the  blight  of  her  youth's  blossoms. 

And,  on  the  horizon  of  such  a  life,  shone  on  this  night  the 
aurora  borealis  of  her  fancy.  Her  imagination  gleamed  and 
glistened,  and  formed  new  coruscations  of  strange  beauty,  and 
took  shapes  that  had  no  substance,  and  sported  with  the  unreal ; 
and,  ever  and  anon,  shot  up  bright  gleams  of  glory  to  the 
zenith.  High  aspirations,  holy  thoughts,  a  pure  repentance 
offered  up  to  God. 

In  this  still  hour  of  the  summer  night,  as  all  these  fancies 
chased  each  other  through  her  mind,  she  stood  so  near  my 
father,  that  he  could  almost  hear  the  beating  of  her  heart,  and 
see  her  tears. 

At  length,  after  standing  for  a  few  moments  in  an  attitude 
of  prayer,  with  her  hands  clasped,  and  her  pale  face  lifted  to 
the  moonlight,  she  drew  the  folds  of  her  shawl  round  her,  and 
went  towards  the  house.  As  she  turned,  the  white  rose  in  her 
bosom  fell  within  my  father's  reach.  He  watched  her  with 
excitement.  He  feared  lest  she  should  miss  the  flower  and 
return ;  but,  occupied  with  other  thoughts,  she  did  not  perceive 
that  she  had  dropped  it,  and,  without  turning  her  head,  disap- 
peared into  the  cottage.  As  soon  as  the  door  closed  on  her, 
my  father  seized  his  prize.  It  had  faded  a  little  in  its  warm, 
soft  nest.  It  was  the  dearer  for  that  reason.  It  was  still  fra- 
grant. It  was  a  rose  unique,  a  rare  kind  of  rose — one  only 
growing  on  each  branch  of  a  small  bush  during  the  season, 
and  Horace  had  nursed  it  carefully  through  storm,  and  frost, 
and  blight,  for  an  offering  to  her.  He  had,  with  pride,  per- 
ceived she  wore  it  at  the  Doctor's  house !  He  loved  her  because 
everything  in  life  that  had  to  him  a  value  and  an  interest,  lived, 
and  moved,  and  had  its  being  in  her. 

When  my  father  reached  his  chamber,  which  he  entered  as 


284  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY . 

he  had  quitted  it,  through  the  low  casement,  he  clipped  the 
stalk  of  his  rose,  determined  to  prolong  its  life  to  the  utmost 
limits  of  floral  existence,  and  put  it  into  a  glass  of  water  before 
he  turned  in  for  the  night,  when,  of  course,  he  dreamed  (but 
his  dreams  were  not  the  dreams  of  the  first  night  of  his  arrival) 
he  was  her  preux  chevalier,  her  true  knight  and  defender,  that 
he  had  saved  her  from  some  peril  (what  it  was,  he  remembered 
very  vaguely),  and  that  on  his  knees  he  had  presented  her  a 
large  pink  poppy,  which  it  gave  him  afterwards  incredible 
uneasiness  to  discover,  was  not,  as  he  had  imagined  it,  a  rose. ' 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew, 
And  good  thoughts  where  her  footsteps  pressed 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. — WHITTIER. 

THE  next  morning  there  was  not  wanting  a  pretext  to  go  early 
to  the  cottage.  He  found  Amabel  giving  Edward  and  Annie 
their  lessons,  but  she  received  him  with  her  pleasant  smile, 
especially  when  he  produced  Marmion,  which  he  offered  to 
read  to  her. 

"  It  is  against  all  precedent  to  break  into  the  hours  of  my 
school,"  she  said,  "but,  indeed,  the  temptation  is  irresistible. 
I  never  owned  -the  book,  and  never  read  it  but  once.  Annie, 
take  your  work.  Ned,  get  your  drawing.  Mr.  Ord,  excuse 
my  darning  in  your  presence,  but  we  keep  but  one  maid,  and 
these  stockings  must  be  done.  Now,  if  you  will  settle  your- 
self in  this  arm-chair,  and  put  your  book  upon  this  stand,  I 
think  you  will  be  comfortable." 

Once  begun,  the  attention  of  the  party  was  entranced,  for 
my  father  was  an  admirable  reader ;  but  after  two  hours  his 
voice  began  to  fail,  and  he  laid  down  the  volume  at  the  close 
of  the  third  canto.  For  some  time  before  he  ended  Amabel 
had  been  frequently  wiping  her  eyes,  and  when  he  closed  the 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  285 

book,  instead  of  thanking  him,  she  did  not  raise  her  head. 
Ned  had  already  slipped  through  the  open  window,  Annie  rose 
quietly  and  went  for  a  ball  of  thread  into  another  chamber. 
My  father  sat  playing  with  the  leaves  of  his  book,  not  liking 
to  notice  Amabel's  agitation.  At  length  she  raised  her  eyes 
and  begged  his  pardon. 

"  I  am  more  restless  and  excitable  to-day  than  I  have  been 
for  months,"  she  said.  "  Our  conversation  of  yesterday  was 
very  agitating,  and  I  -am  afraid  I  have  indulged,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile,  "  in  too  large  a  dose  of  poetry." 

"  Indeed  I  too  have  done  little  but  think  of  our  conversation 
of  last  evening,"  he  exclaimed,  rushing  into  the  subject  with 
an  excess  of  enthusiasm  and  a  lack  of  penetration. 

"  And  I  should  wish  you  to  forget  it,"  she  replied.  "  I  went 
further  and  said  more  than  I  find  it  pleasant  to  remember. 
Believe  me,  I  am  not  usually  indiscreet  and  confidential.  There 
is  not  one  person  here  to  whom  I  would  have  said  or  hinted  a 
tithe  of  what  I  said  to  you." 

"  Not  even  to  Horace  ?" 

"  Certainly  not  to  Horace,"  she  replied.  "  When  I  talk  to 
Horace  it  is  of  himself,  not  of  myself.  You  can  easily  imagine 
why  I  speak  with  you  of  matters  I  could  never  touch  upon 
with  Horace." 

She  rolled  up  the  stockings  she  was  mending  as  she 
spoke,  and  my  father  moved  uneasily  upon  his  chair.  At  last 
he  said — 

"  I  have  been  much  interested  in  my  cousin  Horace." 

"  And  you  may  well  be,"  Amabel  replied.  "  The  steady 
courage  with  which  he  meets  misfortune,  conscious  that  he  is 
its  master  and  superior,  is  a  lesson  I  would  gladly  lay  to  heart, 
and  cherish  for  my  own  use  in  despondent  times." 

"  Yet  Horace  says  that  he  learnt  that  patient  courage,  Mrs. 
Leonard,  from  you." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  called  her  by  the  name 
she  had  assumed ;  a  name  that  she  could  never  hear  without 
emotion.  She  colored,  and  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes ;  but  she 
recovered  herself  and  continued  : 

K  When  I  first  knew  Horace,  the  elements  of  a  noble  charac- 


\ 

286  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

ter  had  not  been  disciplined ;  and  like  the  singer  whose  too 
powerful  voice  requires  to  be  brought  into  subjection,  he  needed 
that  self-mastery,  without  which  the  milder  virtues  become 
weaknesses,  and  the  stronger  passions." 

"  Self  discipline  is  then  a  system  of  checks  and  balances  ?" 
said  my  father. 

"I  find  it  so,"  she  answered,  "and  ....  Mr.  Bevis  is 
not  the  man  to  educe  a  perfect  character  out  of  conflicting 
elements.  I  hope  that  in  return  for  the  happiness  I  have 
found  in  the  interest  inspired  by  Horace,  and  his  almost  filial 
devotion  and  affection,  I  may  have  been  able  to  do  him  good." 

"  A  filial  affection !  I  have  suspected  on  Horace's  part 
something  more." 

"  More  I"  she  cried. 

"  Horace  at  nineteen  is  a  young  man.  His  feelings  and  his 
passions  strong.  I  doubt,"  said  my  father,  "  if  you  are  more 
than  four-and-twenty,  and  you  must  know  the  power  likely  to 
be  exerted  over  him  in  the  pride  of  her  loveliness  by  a  superior 
woman  !" 

"  Oh,  God  !"  she  exclaimed,  shuddering,  "  how  deeply  am  I 
yet  to  drink  the  cup  of  humiliation !  Mr.  Ord,  as  before 
heaven  I  pray  you  to  believe  that  what  you  have  just  said  is 
perfectly  new  to  me,  and  it  gives  me  more  pain  than  you  can 
imagine.  Amidst  all  the  difficulties  of  my  present  life,  my 
friendly  intercourse  with  Horace  has  been  my  consolation." 

Then,  after  pausing  a  moment,  she  exclaimed,  "  What  gave 
you  the  idea  ?" 

"  Personal  observation,  and  some  few  words  dropped  by 
Bevis." 

"  By  Bevis  !"  she  cried.  "  That  man,  Mr.  Ord,  is  my  perse- 
vering enemy ;  and  knowing  him  to  be  such,  I  have  not  felt  it 
becoming  in  me  to  speak  to  you  as  I  should  otherwise  have 
done  to  the  friend  of  Horace,  of  his  utter  unfitness  for  his  pre- 
sent position.  He  is  a  bad  man  ....  meanly  bad.  Putting 
his  hope  in  my  position,  he  has  dared  to  iusult  me  by  profes- 
sions, and  has  never  forgiven  me  his  repulse.  He  is  endea- 
voring at  present  to  annoy  me  by  making  love  to  my  young 
sister  Olivia,  for  whose  welfare  I  am  responsible ;  though  her 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  287 

character  places  her  little  under  my  control.  His  attentions 
are  well  received  by  her.  I  cannot  prevent  or  counteract  them. 
I  see  the  thing  going  on  under  my  own  eyes.  I  know  the 
character  of  Mr.  Bevis,  and  nothing  but  the  watchful  auxiliary 
aid  of  Horace  has  sustained  me  in  the  unequal  struggle." 

"  What  attractions  can  a  man  like  Bevis  find  in  Miss  Olivia  ?" 

"  In  the  main,  I  suppose,  her  prospect  of  a  small  fortune. 
Olivia  is  beyond  my  control,  and  inaccessible  to  my  persuasions. 
We  are  only  half-sisters,  you  know.  I  was  placed  when  very 
young  with  the  relations  of  my  father,  but  Olivia,  at  home, 
early  contrived  to  gain  over  her  mother  the  ascendency  which 
a  strong  will  has  over  a  weak  one,  and  has  never,  till  she  found 
herself  under  my  authority,  been  subject  to  any  sajutary 
control." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  it,"  thought  my  father.  "  So  the  mother  died 
young,  and  Capt.  Talbot  married  again — children  of  the  same 
father  by  different  women.  She  is  very  fond  of  the  father,  I 
perceive."  Then,  he  said  aloud,  "  You  undertook  a  very  great 
responsibility,  when  you  took  the  direction  of  your  father's 
family." 

"  Very  great,  indeed ;  but  I  had  no  one  to  advise  me. 
What  could  I  do  ?  Alone  in  the  world,  without  any  other 
domestic  ties,  this  call  appeared  to  me  a  call  from  Heaven.  It 
gave  me  new  interests  in  life — it  gave  me  a  vocation."  Then, 
after  a  pause,  "  I  cannot  believe  what  you  tell  me  about  Horace. 
It  has  agitated  me  more  than  you  can  conceive.  Cannot  you 
tell  Horace  how  vain,  how  impossible,  how  criminal  is  such  a 
folly  ?  Cannot  you  warn  him  ?  It  would  come  better  from 
you  than  from  me." 

"  I  will  .tell  him,  if  you  choose,  all  that  I  can,"  replied  my 
father. 

She  hesitated.  "  Second  thoughts  are  best,"  she  replied. 
"  Say  nothing  for  the  present.  I  cannot  believe  your  informa- 
tion, and  I  know  Horace  better  than  you  do.  If  it  were  really 
so,  any  actual  explanation  might  only  root  the  evil.  If  it 
becomes  necessary  to  speak,  I  will  do  it  myself.  But  I  must 
first  observe  him.  Poor  Horace !  It  is  absurd.  It  cannot  be. 
A.  mere  boy !" 


288  AMABEL;  A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

She  was  evidently  greatly  disturbed  by  his  suggestion.  But, 
without  continuing  the  conversation,  rose,  and  was  putting 
away  her  work-bag. 

"  Are  you  going  out  ?"  said  my  father,  who  could  not  tear 
himself  away.  "  May  I  accompany  you  ?" 

"  I  think  not,"  she  replied.  "  I  am  in  want  of  calm  and 
quiet.  Your  conversation  will  excite  me,  and  I  have  need  to 
recover  my  self-command." 

"  I  promise  to  touch  only  on  literary  subjects.  I  want  your 
opinion  on  Scott's  poems  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  by  that,  you  want  to  know  my  opinion  of 
Marmion,  I  should  reply,  that  immediately  after  the  treat  we 
had  this  morning,  I  feel  that  I  admire  it  too  much  to  criticize. 
Yet,  if  you  must  have  a  small  criticism,  I  should  say,  I  have 
no  sympathy  with  the  character,  or  rather  sketch  of  Wilton. 
Man  is,  or  ought  to  be,  superior  to  circumstances.  Wilton  was 
not  a  man  of  the  highest  kind  of  courage,  or  would  he  not, 
having  sunk  out  of  public  sight  in  the  character  of  knight  and 
noble,  have  done  something  better  than  wander  round  the 
world  a  useless,  solitary,  morose,  despairing  palmer?  I  have 
no  sympathy  with  that  kind  of  man." 

Before  the  conclusion  of  their  walk,  they  had  made  wonder- 
ful progress  in  intimacy.  She  found  it  delightful  to  catch  from 
him  the  tone  of  general  opinion  on  literary  subjects,  and  he, 
unused  to  intercourse  with  an  appreciative  woman,  his  equal  in 
poetical  feeling,  though  his  inferior  in  cultivation,  was  fascinated 
and  charmed  with  her  beyond  my  powers  of  description. 

He  quitted  her  on  their  return,  as  they  approached  Sandrock, 
for  their  dinner  hour  was  early,  and  he  had  some  preparation 
to  make  before  he  joined  them. 

After  she  had  been  into  the  kitchen,  visited  the  chamber  of 
little  Joseph,  and  tied  the  bow  of  her  father's  best  white  neck- 
handkerchief,  she  proceeded  to  attend  to  her  own  toilette.  This 
was  always  elegant  and  neat,  but  generally  very  brief  and  inex- 
pensive. On  this  occasion,  however,  she  was  hard  to  satisfy. 
Some  little  adornments  which  had  never  seen  the  light  since 
the  disruption  of  her  marriage,  were  brought  out  and  tried  on. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  289 

She  had  hardly  put  in  her  last  pin,  when  there  was  a  loud 
knock  at  her  door,  and,  opening  it,  she  found  Ned  and  my 
father  standing  on  the  threshold. 

"  May  we  come  in,  sister  ?"  said  the  former.  "  Mr.  Ord  has 
been  admiring  the  view  from  my  window,  and  I  told  him  it  was 
a  great  deal  better  from  yours." 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  recovering  from  her  first  surprise,  and 
postponing  Ned's  lesson  in  propriety  to  a  more  convenient 
season. 

The  view  my  father  came  to  see,  he  barely  looked  at.  He 
glanced  around  him.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  bare  simplicity 
of  the  decorations  of  the  chamber.  In  one  of  the  windows 
stood  a  few  flowers ;  above  them  hung  a  painted  cage,  contain- 
ing a  young  linnet,  the  gift  of  a  poor  woman.  On  the  mantel- 
piece were  two  small  vases,  filled  with  graceful  flowering 
grasses ;  over  them  hung  a  slight  sketch  of  a  village  church  and 
churchyard,  shaded  by  yews.  A  few — very  few — books,  devo- 
tional, or  of  Italian  or  classical  poetry,  stood  on  a  plain  deal 
shelf  over  her  dressing  table. 

My  father's  attention  was,  however,  drawn  chiefly  to  a  large 
blue  camlet  cloak,  evidently  "  once  the  property  of  a  gentle- 
man," which,  with  its  brass  chain  clasp  and  scarlet  woollen 
lining,  lay  spread  over  her  sofa  bed. 

"  I  hope  you  admire  my  sister's  counterpane,"  said  Ned,  per- 
ceiving that  it  had  caught  the  attention  of  my  father. 

He  looked  into  her  face  and  saw  her  blush,  as,  turning 
hastily,  she  asked  him  if  the  portfolio  in  his  hand  contained 
his  own  poems. 

"  Nothing,  lipwever,  could  affect  me  so  deeply,  as  the  stan- 
zas you  have  given  me,"  she  added,  looking  on  the  ground. 

My  father  seized  her  hand.  "  It  is  the  poet's  highest  tri- 
umph," he  said,  "  to  awaken  such  emotions.  Might  the  impres- 
sion but  be  lasting,  not  evanescent,  I  should  indeed  have  gained 
from  poetry  the  highest  reward  she  can  bestow." 

"  It  is  an  impression  which  will  last  me  all  my  life,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  as  they  went  down  stairs. 

The  fish  was  highly  approved  of.  My  father  found  oul 
-that  Amabel  had  made  the  wine  sauce,  the  pickles,  and  the 

13 


290  AMABIL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

pudding.  He  told  some  of  his  best  sea  stories  to  Capt.  Talbot, 
who  was  able  to  join  slightly  in  the  conversation,  it  being  one 
of  his  well  days.  My  father  was  quite  surprised  by  the  nauti- 
cal erudition  of  Amabel.  She  even  ventured  to  dispute  with 
him  upon  the  navy  list,  and  set  him  right  on  a  point  of  promo- 
tion. 

After  dinner,  she  went  to  the  piano,  by  way  of  sequel  to  a 
discussion  upon  sea  songs,  and  began  to  sing  Tom  Bowline  and 
Black-eyed  Susan,  asking  his  advice  on  points  of  emphasis. 
My  father,  who  had  a  good  voice,  added  a  second.  The  music 
gave  the  most  intense  delight  to  the  poor  paralytic,  who  sat  by 
the  fire  beating  time.  Annie  had  gone  on  some  errand,  Olivia 
had  retired  to  her  chamber,  and  Ned  was  despatched  to  Dr. 
Frost's  with  his  Latin  grammar.  My  father  and  Amabel,  left 
alone,  stood  by  the  window,  talking  low,  until  the  lengthened 
shadows  on  the  lawn  grew  dim,  and  they  were  startled  by  the 
entrance  of  the  girl,  with  tea  and  candles.  At  nine  o'clock,  a 
liquor  stand  was  brought  in  for  Captain  Talbot,  who,  before  he 
slept,  always  took  a  glass  of  toddy,  like  a  fine  old  English  offi- 
cer all  of  the  olden  time.  Amabel  offered  to  mix  one  for  my 
father,  who  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  a  glass  of  grog 
from  her  fair  hands. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  she  hurried  up  to  the  sick  child's 
chamber,  inwardly  reproaching  herself,  for  having  that  day  left 
him  to  others'  care.  My  father,  meanwhile,  was  striding  briskly 
homewards,  thinking  Horace  a  fool  for  imagining  that  a  youth 
of  his  age  could  captivate  such  a  woman,  but  with  no  trace  of  the 
fear  he  had  had  the  day  before,  that  his  young  relation  would 
be  taken  in  by  the  insidious  arts  of  a  seductive"  charmer. 

It  was  very  dark,  and  the  road  was  bad  in  some  places. 
After  several  mistakes,  he  found  himself  within  the  garden  fence 
of  the  Hill  Farm,  but  could  not  see  the  path,  and  fancied  he  had 
got  into  the  midst  of  a  flower  border.  Clods  of  earth  and 
briers  entangled  his  feet ;  he  tried  to  kick  them  away,  and  as 
he  did  so,  tripped  and  fell  over  a  spade. 

"  Confound  the  careless  rascal  who  left  such  things  lying  in 
the  middle  of  the  foot-path,"  he  exclaimed,  to  Bevis,  as  he 
entered  the  house,  rubbing  his  shins. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  291 

"  I  suppose  it  was  Horace,"  said  the  tutor.  "  He  was  out  there 
till  the  night  closed  in." 

Bevis  had  that  afternoon  seen  the  white  rose  blooming  in  a 
glass  in  my  father's  chamber.  He  had  recognised  it  at  once, 
Horace  having  made  a  great  fuss  over  it  during  the  period  of 
its  growth,  and  there  was  not  another  like  it  in  that  part  of  the 
country.  In  the  spirit  of  ill-natured  mischief,  he  had  hastened 
to  tell  Horace  that  the  favors  of  his  immaculate  lady-love 
seemed  very  lightly  won,  and  pretty  generally  distributed  ;  that 
she  appeared  strangely  willing  to  extend  the  range  of  her  tri- 
umphs by  purchasing  the  attentions  of  a  new  admirer,  at  the 
expense  of  an  old  one  ;  that,  at  present,  the  absurd  enthusiasm 
of  youth  blinded  his  judgment,  but  that  when  he  grew 
older 

Here  Horace  interrupted  him,  exclaiming,  that  he  was  not 
going  to  stand  by  and  hear  a  lady  such  as  Amabel,  insulted ; 
that  nothing  could  be  more  mean  than  to  shelter  a  taunt 
behind  unanswerable  arguments  of  being  older  than  the  other 
party. 

"  I  know  I  am  young,"  he  cried,  "  I  am  willing  to  acknow- 
ledge it.  But  I  also  know  that  grown  up  man  loses  the 
youthful  instinct.  Learns  to  argue  upon  good,  but  what  is 
good  he  discerns  not.  Learns  to  handle  the  helm,  but  breaks 
the  compass  to  steer  by.  I  would  not  be  you,  Mr.  Bevis,  at 
your  age,  for  all  the  gold  of  Ophir." 

So  saying,  Horace  turned  with  vehement  contempt  from  his 
unworthy  tutor.  He  found  his  way  down  to  the  river's  brink,* 
and  stood  upon  the  bridge  over  the  mill  stream.  His  pride 
and  his  strong  passions  slipped  their  leash.  He  lost  all  self- 
command.  He  returned  home  after  nightfall  in  a  state  of 

O 

great  bodily  and  mental  suffering.     He  seized  a  spade  out  of 

*  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  by  several  friends  unaccustomed  to  the  society  of  the 
blind,  that  Horace's  activity  is  rather  extraordinary.  I  beg  leave  to  assure  them  that 
I  have  a  very  dear  friend  and  cousin,  who  not  only  is  blind  like  Horace,  hut  has  suffered 
amputation  of  one  leg.  Notwithstanding  this  double  misfortune,  he  is  full  of  activity 
and  energy,  the  best  farmer  in  his  county,  a  good  correspondent,  and  a  capital  horse 
man.  The  life  of  my  cousin  John,  like  Horace's  example,  points  one  of  the  morals  of 
my  book,  and  proves  that  an  immortal  being  has  it  in  his  power,  if  he  will,  to  bruise 
the  head  of  adverse  circumstances,  which  can  only  bruise  his  heel  if  he  openly  defie* 
them. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

the- tool-house,  and  began  a  sort  of  indiscriminate  devastation 
in  the  flower-beds ;  first  digging  up  the  rose  unique,  the  pride 
of  his  garden. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Helas  !  dans  mes  longs  jours  d'alarme 

Que  i'ai  verse  d'ameres  pleurs  ! 
Aujourd'hui  ces  pleurs  ont  leur  channe, 

Je  suis  heureux  de  mes  douleurs  ! 
Oui,  pour  moi  quand  je  vous  ecoute 

Du  ciel  s'apaise  le  courroux  ; 
C'est  un  blaspheme  que  le  doute, 

Et  je  crois  au  bonheur; 

Dieu  m'a  conduit  vers  vous ! 


THE  next  morning  every  one  was  late  at  the  Hill  Farm ;  my 
father  slept  late,  Eevis  was  late,  the  servants  late,  and  Horace 
die!  not  make  his  appearance  at  all.  He  had  passed  a  restless, 
feverish  night,  Bevis  had  been  called  up  to  him,  and  by  morn- 
ing he  was  seriously  indisposed.  The  day  was  a  wet  Sunday, 
that  most  wearisome  of  all  days  to  at  least  nine  tenths  of  our 
Christian  population.  My  father  went  into  his  cousin's  room 
to  see  if  he  could  do  anything  for  him,  but  soon  came  forth 
again  supposing  he  was  too  ill  to  receive  visitors,  as  Horace, 
when  he  entered,  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  This  being  the 
case,  my  father  followed  the  bent  of  his  own  inclination,  which 
was  to  go  to  church  in  the  hope  of  meeting  Amabel.  He  took 
his  way  past  the  cottage  of  the  Talbots,  and  on  nearing  it,  saw 
Olivia  at  an  open  widow  with  her  bonnet  on. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Olivia,"  said  my  father,  entering  the 
gate.  "  Are  any  of  you  going  to  church  this  morning  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,  Mr.  Ord.  Has  Mr.  Bevis  gone  past?" 
replied  Olivia. 

"  Horace  is  ill,  and  he  had  to  stop  at  home  this  morning. 
^0  doubt  he  will  regret  it,  Miss  Olivia,  when  he  knows  he 
was  expected  by  you." 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  293 

Olivia  tossed  her  head. 

"  You  will  be  late  for  church,  Mr.  Ord,"  said  Annie,  from 
her  window. 

"  Are  you  all  at  home  this  morning  ?"  said  my  father,  anxi- 
ous to  find  out  by  an  indirect  question  if  Amabel  were  gone. 

"  All,  except  Ned  and  Amabel.  They  went  at  nine  o'clock 
to  the  Sunday-school." 

Having  thus  ascertained  that  the  pleasure  of  sheltering  Ama- 
bel to  church  under  his  umbrella  was  not  to  be  expected,  my 
father  lifted  his  hat,  and  walked  briskly  on.  He  was  not  so 
late  in  getting  into  church  as  he  had  anticipated.  The  beadle 
showed  him  into  the  Hill  Farm  pew,  and  as  soon  as  he  had 
settled  himself  in  his  place,  he  heard  a  low  earnest  fervent 
voice,  in  the  next  pew  behind  him,  repeating  the  responses  in 
the  confession.  All  through  the  service  he  listened  to  Ama- 
bel's sweet  pleading  voice  ;  it  awoke  in  him  a  hearty  desire  to 
pray  for  her  and  for  himself.  He  too  knelt  down,  almost 
beside  her,  a  few  frail  boards  divided  them,  but  their  souls 
together  soared  above  the  earth,  their  hearts  together  met 
before  their  Father's  throne.  Her  earnestness  had  kindled  his. 
The  fervent  petitions  of  that  Sunday  were  the  prelude  to  a  deep 
conviction  of  the  privilege  of  prayer.  He  did  not  see  her  face. 
He  turned  but  once  to  look  at  her.  Her  veil  was  down.  "Well 
might  she  weep,  well  might  she  pray  ;  the  events  of  the  past 
week,  the  new  hopes  they  had  awakened,  the  sins  of  the  past, 
never  to  be  sufficiently  remembered  or  repented  of,  each  in  its 
turn  started  her  tears.  It  was  one  of  those  moments  of  self 
consciousness  and  of  self  pity  which  soften  the  heart,  and 
make  us  weep  without  any  very  especial  or  prominent  cause. 

The  church,  to  them  the  House  of  God,  t  ie  gate  of  heaven, 
was  perfectly  innocent  of  all  Papistical  adornments.  Of  it  they 
might  truly  say 

No  sculptured  wonders  meet  the  sight, 

Nor  pictured  saints  appear, 
Nor  storied  window's  gorgeous  light, 

But  God  himself  is  here. 

The  proportions  of  the  edifice  were  good,  but  it  had  been 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORT. 

subject  to  a  long  course  of  indiscriminating  whitewash,  which 
gave  to  ceiling,  walls,  and  floor,  a  glaring  uniformity,  broken 
only  by  the  black  board  hung  out  over  the  gallery,  on  which 
was  scored  with  chalk,  the  number  of  the  Psalms  and  Hymns 
the  choir  proposed  to  sing  "  to  the  glory  of  God,"  and  the  dis- 
comfort of  the  congregation.  From  the  same  gallery,  the 
rising  generation  had  been  in  the  habit  of  spitting  down  with 
tolerable  aim,  on  the  grey  locks  and  bald  heads  of  its  elders, 
and  the  beadle's  lithe  cane — whack — whack — had  in  former 
days  resounded  there ;  but  the  influence  of  Amabel  had,  in  some 
degree,  restored  order  and  decency  among  the  scholars  of 
the  Sunday  School. 

The  discourse  delivered  by  Dr.  Frost  was  as  chilling  as  his 
name.  Had  either  Theodosius  or  Amabel  listened  to  it  atten- 
tively, I  am  afraid  it  might  have  done  away  with  the  preced- 
ing effect  of  the  service ;  but,  my  father,  at  that  time,  was  not 
much  given  to  take  an  interest  in  any  but  very  eloquent  dis- 
courses, and  Amabel,  who  had  long  sat  under  Dr.  Frost's  red 
cushion,  had  given  up  attempting  to  be  edified. 

My  father  went  out  first,  hoping  to  intercept  her,  but  she 
waited  so  long  in  the  church  to  speak  to  some  old  women,  that 
he  almost  began  to  fear  she  had  escaped,  till  Ned  came  out 
into  the  church  porch,  and  stood  beside  him.  Shortly  after- 
wards she  joined  them.  As  she  did  so,  the  first  sunbeam  of 
the  day  fell  on  her  head,  and  seemed  to  crown  her  with  a 
golden  glory. 

"  Where  is  Horace  ?"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  see  him  to-day. 
In  general,  he  is  so  punctual." 

"  Horace  is  ill,"  replied  my  father,  and  proceeded  to  give  her 
what  he  knew  of  the  particulars. 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  she  took  it,  and  they  walked  on 
silently. 

At  length,  he  said,  "  How  astonishingly  beautiful  is  our  ser- 
vice ; — how  soothing  its  influence ; — and,  though  composed  of 
many  parts,  how  perfect  as  a  whole !" 

"  Indeed,  I  feel  it  so,"  she  said.  "  I  know  but  one  omission. 
There  is  no  prayer  for  the  happy.  I  felt  the  want  of  one  this 
morning.  There  is  abundant  provision  made  for  the  sad." 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY.  295 

'  You  wanted  a  prayer  for  the  happy  !"  he  said,  and  stopped. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  she  said.  "  The  tears  that  I  have  shed,  which 
I  am  not  ashamed  that  you  should  see,  were  not  all  grief. 
There  is  a  new  hope  brooding  in  my  heart,"  and  her  voice 
faltered. 

Again  they  walked  on  silently.  Her  thoughts  were  on  the 
subject  of  her  tears ;  of  happy  tears, 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplexed  for  utterance, 
Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow. 

Not  perfect  joy,  no  doubt.  But  she  was  like  the  shipwrecked 
seaman  in  an  open  boat,  tossed  weary  days  and  dreadful  nights 
upon  unvarying  waters,  who  dimly  sees  ahead  at  the  blue 
verge  of  sky  and  sea,  a  faint  low  strip  of  land.  Tears,  manfully 
suppressed  during  an  earnest  struggle  for  his  life,  start  to  his 
eyes.  He  thanks  God  and  takes  courage. 

They  walked  on  arm  in  arm,  not  wishing  to  converse ;  the 
heart  of  each  was  understood  by  the  other,  a  very  different 
thing,  you  perceive,  from  having  on  matters  of  fact  come  to  a 
clear  understanding.  They  entered  the  premises  by  the  garden. 
As  they  climbed  up  the  terraces,  she  stopped  under  a  warm 
wall,  where  grew  a  sweet-leaved  verbena.  She  paused,  broke 
off  the  largest  sprig,  thereby  nearly  destroying  the  plant,  which 
she  had  nursed  in  her  own  room  during  a  long  winter,  and,  as 
she  put  it  into  his  hand,  she  bruised  one  leaf  between  her 
fingers. 

"  The  crushed  leaf  gives  the  sweetest  fragrance.  May  I  take 
that  as  an  omen  for  the  future,  Mr.  Ord  ?" 

He  pressed  the  hand  that  lay  upon  his  arm,  still  closer  to 
his  heart.  He  felt  as  if  she  had  almost  given  him  the  right  to 
watch  over  her,  to  be  concerned  in  all  that  affected  her. 

After  a  pause,  he  said,  "  You  are  wearing  yourself  out  in 
this  place." 

"  At  the  worst,"  she  said,  in  the  sweet  words  of  the  Port- 
royalist,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  and  smiled,  "  N'avons  nous 
pas  toute  Vetcrnite  pour  nous  reposer  I" 

So  saying,  she  took  leave  of  him,  and  he  went  on  his  way 


296  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

rejoicing.     She  had  smiled  into  his  heart     There  was  a  pecu- 
liar fascination  in  her  smile  to  every  one  who  loved  her. 

Every  leaf  in  every  nook  glittered  with  rain-drops,  a  sum- 
mer's sun  shone  on  them,  and  the  dreary  rain  which  had  been 
shed  all  night,  glistened  and  sparkled  in  the  golden  light  of 
mid-day.  A  fragrance  rose  from  all  the  moistened  earth,  the 
tender  wheat  was  peeping  from  amongst  the  clods  of  the  future 
fields  of  harvest.  The  little  birds,  who  had  hidden  themselves 
in  leafy  coverts,  while  the  rain-storm  lasted,  now  blithely 
hovered  upon  every  branch,  or  splashed,  and  bathed,  and  twit- 
tered in  the  rain  pools.  Nature,  rejoicing  in  her  alchemy, 
turned  all  her  possessions  into  profit,  and,  literally  under  the 
influences  of  the  sunlight,  even  the  dust  of  the  earth  seemed 
turned  to  gold. 

As  my  father  walked  along,  buried  in  reflections  in  unison 
with  nature,  he  heard  the  patter  of  feet  behind  him  on  the  path, 
and,  turning  round,  beheld  Ned  Talbot  running  after  him,  with 
a  tumbler  full  of  jelly  in  his  hand. 

"  Where  are  you  going  with  that,  my  boy  ?"  said  he,  good- 
humoredly. 

"I  am  taking  it  up  to  Horace  Vane,"  said  Ned.  "Sister 
made  some  the  other  day  for  Joseph,  and  she  thinks  it  will  do 
Horace  good." 

"  Give  it  to  me  then !"  said  my  father,  "  I  shall  carry  and 
deliver  it  quite  as  safely  as  you.  You  can  run  home  to  your 
dinner." 

"  No,  sir ;  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Master  Ned  mysteriously, 
"  because  you  see,"  here  he  came  near  to  my  father,  and  began 
to  whisper — "  because  you  see  I  have  a  note  to  deliver  from 
Olivia  to  Mr.  Bevis,  and  I  am  to  bring  back  another  volume  of 
a  book  he  has  got  for  her." 

"Does  your  sister  Amabel  know  you  carry  notes  between 
them  ?"  said  my  father.  A  delicious  thrill  went  through  him, 
as,  for  the  first  time,  he  spoke  her  name. 

"  I  don't  know  quite,"  said  Ned,  rather  disconcerted.  "  You 
see,"  he  added,  resuming  his  confidential  whisper,  "  I  think  Mr. 
Bevis  and  Olivia  are  going  to  be  married.  I  wish  they  would. 
She  would  go  away  then,  and  we  should  have  another  wedding." 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  297 

"  Do  you  remember  that  of  your  sister  Amabel  ?"  asked  my 
father. 

"  Yes ;  I  do  just,"  said  Ned. 

"  What  sort  of  man  was  her  husband  ?" 

"  I  don't  remember  him  much,"  said  Ned,  "  but  it  was  all 
prime.  I  had  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  and  went  to  church,  and 
ate  all  the  ornaments  off  the  cake,  and  was  dreadfully  sick  the 
day  after  ?" 

"  What  became  of  him  ?" 

"  He  died,"  said  Ned,  repeating  an  untruth  Olivia  had  one 
day  told  him,  to  get  rid  of  his  importunity  in  asking  the  same 
question.  "  He  went  to  sea,  and  never  came  back  any  more. 
You  must  never,"  he  continued,  "  tell  Amabel  I  told  you  ;  for, 
since  she  came  back  to  live  with  us,  she  can't  bear  to  hear  him 
spoken  of,  and  we  have  been  told  never  to  mention  him.  You 
won't  tell,  will  you  ?" 

Horace  continued  ill,  and  obstinately  refused  to  let  them 
send  to  the  nearest  market  town  for  the  medical  practitioner. 
During  the  early  part  of  the  week,  daily  accounts  reached  Ama- 
bel through  the  gossips  of  the  village,  of  the  bachelor  discom- 
forts of  his  sick  chamber ;  and  at  length,  her  own  patient,  little 
Joseph,  being  once  more  on  his  feet,  she  took  courage  in  the 
thought  of  the  protection  afforded  her  against  Bevis  by  my 
father's  presence,  and  one  morning  walked  up  to  the  Hill  Farm, 
with  her  basket,  making  her  way  at  once  to  the  blind  boy's 
chamber.  He  was  lying,  at  that  moment,  in  a  most  uneasy 
slumber.  His  arras  were  tossed  above  his  head,  his  thick  hair 
was  tangled,  and  his  bed-clothes  in  the  most  uncomfortable 
disorder ;  two  or  three  pillows,  which,  in  the  restless  agitation 
of  the  night,  he  had  flung  away,  lay  on  the  floor ;  with  one  of 
them  he  had  knocked  down  a  Small  table.  She  cleared  a  chair, 
put  down  on  it  her  bonnet,  shawl,  and  basket,  and  then,  with 
her  light  step  and  fairy  touch,  proceeded  to  restore  an  appear- 
ance of  order  and  of  comfort  to  the  chamber.  In  her  hands, 
creaking  doors  would  never  creak,  and  glasses  never  rattle. 

The  room  was  set  to  rights,  the  beef  tea  she  had  brought 
was  simmering  upon  the  hearth,  and  she  herself,  calm,  still,  and 

13* 


298  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

gentle,  when  Horace  woke,  was  sitting  by  his  side.  He  recog- 
nised her  presence  even  before  she  laid  her  cool,  soft  hand  on 
his,  and  as  he  felt  the  touch,  he  made  an  uneasy  movement. 

"Dear  Horace,"  she  said,  "you  do  not  know  how  much 
more  comfortable  I  have  made  your  room.  Now,  let  me 
smoothe  this  rugged  mane,  and  re-arrange  these  troubled  pil- 
lows ?" 

"  What  does  it  signify  ?"  he  said,  in  an  impatient  tone. 
"  What  use  am  I  on  earth  ?  A  blight — a  good-for-nothing  bur- 
den." 

"  Why,  Horace,  how  unlike  you !"  said  Amabel  in  surprise, 
for  she  had  come  up  there  to  minister  to  the  body,  and  was 
not  prepared  to  find  the  mind  diseased.  "  Dear  Horace,  you 
shall  not  call  your  misfortune  by  hard  names.  You  are 
ungrateful  to  that  God  who  has  given  you  large  opportunities 
of  usefulness.  Oh !  Horace,  words  can  never  tell  how,  when 
trials  were  multiplied,  and  I  must  have  fainted  without  help, 
your  silent  sympathy  has  strengthened  and  refreshed  me !" 

"  Say  that  again — say  that  again,"  cried  Horace.  "  Say  I  am 
something  yet  to  you." 

"  Much — much  indeed,  dear  Horace,  your  love  is  more  to 
me  than  words  can  tell ;  and  my  confidence  in  your  affection 

has  sustained  my  courage  when  without  you Oh  ! 

Horace,  I  do  not  love  to  think  of  times  like  those,"  she  said, 
and  stopped;  then  murmured  to  herself  those  words  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner — 

My  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea, 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  Himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

"  Mrs.  Leonard,"  cried  Horace,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  will 
you  answer  me  one  question  3" 

"  Certainly,  Horace,  should  it  be  a  question  I  can  answer." 

"  Have  you  known  Theodosius  Ord  before ,  or  has  he 

sup ?  Did  you  ever  see  him  before  ?"  he  cried. 

Amabel  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then — "  You  have  asked  a 
hard  thing,"  she  replied.  "  To  explain  to  you  the  relations  that 
subsist  between  Mr.  Ord  and  myself,  would  lead  me  to  speak  of 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT.  299 

things  which,  in  honor  and  duty,  I  am  bound  not  to  mention. 
Not  secrets  only  of  my  own,  for  I  would  be  willing  to  lay  before 
you  the  story  of  my  life  with  all  its  faults,  its  errors,  and  short- 
comings. I  have  seen  Theodosius  Ord  before.  Will  that  brief 
answer  satisfy  you  ?" 

"  Oh !  did  you — answer  me  this  one  more  question,"  said 
Horace,  seizing  her  hand,  "  did  you,"  and  he  started  up  in  bed, 
and  his  face  flushed,  and  he  turned  on  her  his  eyes,  those 
eyes  that  could  not  see,  "  did  you  give  him  my  rose,  my  poor 
little  rose  unique  which  I  gave  you  ?  Did  you  give  it  him  as 
a  love-token — to  be  valued  for  your  sake?  Had  it  no  sort  of 
value  because  /  raised  it  for  you  ?" 

"  Horace,"  she  said  gravely,  "  listen  to  me.  You  know  not 
what  you  say.  No  man  ought  to  presume  to  talk  to  me  of 
love  tokens.  I  would  not,  for  a  forest  of  magnolias,  have  given 
any  one  your  rose.  I  never  gave  it  to  Mr.  Ord.  I  never  knew, 
till  now,  it  had  been  in  his  possession.  I  wore  it  home  from 
Dr.  Frost's,  and  thought  it  safe,  but  missed  it  when  I  was 
undressing.  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  mistaken  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Horace,  "  Bevis  saw  it  in  his  room,  and 
I  went  in  and  found  it  there.  Nothing  but  the  fear  that  you 
would  be  displeased,  prevented  my  tearing  it  in  my  jealous  fury. 
Will  you  forgive  me  ?  I  was  very  unjust  and  very  wrong." 

She  looked  very  sad  and  very  grave  for  a  few  moments. 

"  Lie  down,  dear  Horace,"  she  said.  "  Lie  down  and  hear 
me.  I  believe  your  love  for  me  to  be  so  pure,  and  real,  and 
strong,  that  you  will  believe  and  trust  me,  though  I  speak  in 
riddles.  Oh !  Horace,  for  that  lovers  sake,  if  you  knew  how 
sad  my  life  has  been,  you  would  be  glad  to  know  that  I  walk 
in  the  brightness  of  a  new  hope  since  your  cousin  has  been 
•with  you.  If  that  hope  is  not  deceived,  before  very  long,  dear 
Horace,  I  trust  to  tell  you  all.  Theodosius  has  come  here, 
ostensibly  to  pay  you  a  visit,  but  in  reality,  because  I  live  here. 
I  knew  it  from  the  time  of  his  arrival.  And,  know,  dear 
Horace,  once  for  all,  and  once  for  ever,  that  between  us  there 
is  no  question  of  affection.  It  would  be  criminal  for  Thec- 
dosius  Ord,  or  any  other  man  who  knew  my  history,  to  ask  of 
me  what  is  commonly  called  love;  and  vain — utterly  vain,  for 


300  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTOBY. 

any  one  whatever,  to  hope  to  inspire  me  with  such  a  feeling. 
Horace,  is  my  joy  to  be  dimmed  because  you  will  not  share  it  ? 
When  happiness  and  honor,  love,  station,  and  a  name  are  all 
restored  to  me,  is  my  satisfaction  to  be  dashed  with  bitterness, 
because  Horace  Vane,  whose  sympathy  was  so  dear  to  me  in 
my  days  of  grief,  refuses  to  be  glad  that  I  am  happy  ?" 

He  started  up,  and  seizing  both  her  hands,  pressed  them 
'together  between  his  own.  "  Hear  me  swear,"  he  said,  "  that 
your  happiness  is  dearer  to  my  heart  a  hundred  thousand  fold 
than  my  own.  That  I  will  and  do  rejoice  in  anything  that 
makes  you  happy.  No  tears  of  mine  shall  fall  upon  your  path. 
If  it  can  please  you,  when  you  are  happy,  I  will  be  so  too." 

"  May  God  bless  you  and  keep  you.  The  Lord  make  His 
face  to  shine  upon  you,  and  be  merciful  unto  you,"  she  said, 
consecrating,  as  it  were,  his  vow  by  her  most  solemn  blessing, 
and.  stooping  over  him,  she  pressed  a  cool,  calm,  elder  sister 
kiss  upon  the  eyelids  of  his  sightless  eyes  and  on  his  burning 
forehead. 

After  a  quiet  pause,  she  rose,  proceeded  to  toast  crisp,  and  to 
prepare  a  slice  of  bread,  after  which  she  poured  the  beef  tea  she 
had  been  cooking,  into  a  cup,  and  bringing  it  to  his  bed-side, 
invited  him  t6  dine.  He  tried  to  rally,  poor  fellow,  and  take 
an  interest  in  all  she  did.  She  put  the  cup  and  spoon  into  his 
hand,  and  made  him  feel  the  thin  crisp  bars  of  toast. 

"  How  nice  it  all  is  when  you  make  it,"  he  said.  "  Mrs.  Caesar 
brings  me  great  greasy  basins  of  coarse  broth,  holding  a  quart." 

"  If  you  behave  well,"  said  Amabel,  trying  to  smile  and  to 
speak  gaily,  though  there  was  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice,  "  I 
am  coming  up  to  make  it  for  you  every  day." 

She  kept  her  word.  The  sort  of  slow  fever  under  which 
Horace  was  suffering,  was  not  to  be  shaken  off  at  once,  though 
he  grew  better  day  by  day.  Every  morning  my  father  walked 
to  Sandrock,  for  the  pleasure  of  escorting  her.  Often  he  came 
into  Horace's  room,  while  she  was  there,  and  heard  her  read, 
or  read  to  them,  while  she  worked ;  for  Horace,  anxious  to  show 
her  he  could  conquer  his  own  passion,  had  become  very  cordial 
to  his  cousin.  Sometimes  they  talked,  more  often  they  read. 
u  The  Rejected  Addresses,"  was,  to  my  father's  great  disgust, 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  301 

one  of  their  favorite  volumes.  Amabel  had  always,  as  he  called 
it,  "  a  perverse  penchant  for  parody."  She  hailed  Bon  Gaultier's 
abilities  years  ago,  before  they  were  generally  acknowledged  ; 
and  gave  a  binding  to  that  number  of  Tail's  Magazine  which 
contained  his  review  of  the  Topaz. 

The  days  of  Horace's  convalescence  were  thus  upon  the 
whole,  "  merry  and  joyful."  The  poor  fellow  struggled  to  be 
gay,  and  succeeded  at  last,  without  a  painfully  visible  expendi- 
ture of  effort.  The  natural  gaiety  of  Amabel  broke  forth,  as  it 
had  never  done  since  the  days  of  her  girlhood.  She  laughed, 
and  quoted  fragments  of  gay  verse,  and  sang  snatches  of  sea 
song  up  stairs,  down  stairs,  and  in  poor  Horace's  chamber 
Her  step  was  buoyant,  and  her  smile  was  gay  ;  there  was  almost 
an  air  of  triumph  in  the  way  in  which  sometimes,  when  alone 
and  very  elate,  she  tossed  her  head  and  carried  herself.  On 
the  gloomy  background  of  her  past  life,  glittered  and  sparkled 
the  trifling  pleasures  of  the  present.  She  seemed  to  say  with 
Browning's  charming  Duchess,  when  contemplating  the  trials 
and  distresses  so  ill  suited  to  her  nature — 

It  was  all  a  jest  against  God  ;  who  meant 

That  I  should  be  ever,  as  I  am,  content 

And  glad  in  His  sight.     Therefore  glad  will  I  be. 

And  my  father,  who  had  first  loved  her  in  her  sadder  moods, 
became  bewitched  with  her  in  those  of  gladness.  He  became 
domesticated  at  her  cottage.  He  would  have  been  there  all 
day  long,  had  he  not  considered  himself  bound  to  devote  some 
of  his  time  to  Horace.  He  knew  all  her  ways  and  all  her 
haunts.  He  could  lie  in  wait  for  her  at  all  hours,  and  when 
he  intruded,  she  was  never  displeased.  He  began  to  frame  plans 
for  their  future.  He  was  made  wretched  one  day,  because 
having  bitterly  complained  to  her  in  a  fit  of  disgust,  of  the 
slowness  of  his  promotion,  and  having  told  her  that  he  thought 
of  not  applying  any  more  for  employment,  and  of  never  aspiring 
to  anything  beyond  his  lieutenant's  commission,  she  answered 
him  that  any  man  was  wrong  to  give  up  his  profession  ;  that  if 
he  quitted  the  navy,  he  would  be  cutting  off  from  his  future  all 
the  past  of  his  life,  that  naval  men  always  grumbled  at  the  ser- 


302  A  M  A  D  E  I. ;     A     FAMILY     HISTORY. 

vice,  and  Nelson  himself  was  once  on  the  verge  of  an  open  rup- 
ture with  the  Admiralty.  "  If  she  wants  me  to  go  to  sea,"  said 
he,  "she  cannot  love  me."  But,  soon  he  forgot  this  dis- 
couragement, and  was  eagerly  endeavoring  to  find  out  even  her 
most  trivial  tastes.  He  began  to  think  that  a  retired  country 
life,  enlivened  by  farm  work  and  literary  labor,  would  be 
all  he  wanted  to  construct  a  Paradise,  an  Eve  being  already 
provided  for  his  Eden.  He  had  a  barely  sufficient  funded 
competency  left  him  by  his  parents,  and  it  was  curious  to  see 
how  eagerly  he  began  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  farmers, 
and  to  inquire  the  price  of  land,  and  the  capabilities  of  houses, 
and  how  earnestly  he  consulted  her  upon  these  subjects,  and 
how  her  lightest  opinion  swayed  him. 

While  he  indulged  these  dreams  of  cottage  love,  and 
planted  pleasant  fancies  in  his  paradise,  Amabel  was  not  w'ith- 
out  her  visions.  Her  thoughts  turned  often  to  her  old  home, 
the  cottage  within  the  park  bounds  of  the  Cedars,  planning 
alterations  in  its  flower  beds,  and  improvements  in  its  house- 
keeping, the  transplantation  of  her  new  ideas,  and  her  dwarf 
roses  for  the  embellishment  of  that  home  in  which  she  had  had 
little  interest  when  she  possessed  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Two  ears  and  but  a  single  tongue 
By  nature's  laws  to  man  belong ; 
The  lesson  she  would  teach  is  clear — 
Repeat  but  half  of  what  you  hear. 

ERASER'S  MAGAZINE. 

MY  father's  intimacy  with  Amabel  was  now  so  well  established, 
that,  in  the  course  of  one  of  their  confidential  conversations,  he 
informed  her  of  the  notes  carried  by  Ned  Talbot  between  Bevis 
and  Olivia. 

A  few  days  later,  whilst  looking  with  interest,  in  the  dusk  of 
the  evening,  at  a  fine  growth  of  turnips,  in  a  field  near  the 
entrance  of  the  village,  he  was  accosted  in  a  truculent  way  by 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORT.  303 

Bevis,  who,  in  an  extremely  excited  and  offensive  manner, 
broke  in  upon  his  meditation. 

"  I  understand,  Mr.  Ord,"  said  he,  "  you  have  been  troubling 
yourself  very  unnecessarily  with  my  concerns ;  that  you  have 
taken  upon  you  to  make  representations,  concerning  my  inter- 
course with  Miss  Olivia,  to  her  family ;  and  I  must  say  I  consi- 
der it  an  officious  interference,  sir."  * 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Bevis,"  replied  my  father,  who,  being 
an  officer,  restrained  his  temper,  when,  if  a  civilian,  he  might 
possibly  have  knocked  the  fellow  down,  "  this  is  not  language 
to  be  held  to  me.  I  am  not  conscious  that  I  have  interfered 
unwarrantably  in  any  affair  that  affects  you." 

"  You  did  not  mention,  I  presume,  to  that  sister  of  her's,  that 
choice  morsels  of  correspondence  have  occasionally  passed 
between  us." 

"I  certainly  may  have  mentioned,"  my  father  replied,  "that 
I  found  Ned  Talbot  carrying  notes  one  morning.  I  knew  Mrs. 
Leonard  was  anxious  on  the  subject,  and — " 

"  And  I  must  say,"  interrupted  Bevis,  "  that  for  her  to  be 
playing  the  guardian  of  vestal  virtue,  and  casting  stones  at  her 
sister  on  the  ground  of  impropriety,  is  one  of  the  richest  jokes 
I  ever  heard  of." 

"  It  is  quite  time  to  stop  these  insinuations.  I  should  like 
to  know,  sir,  what  you  mean  ?"  indignantly  exclaimed  my 
father. 

"  It  is  nearly  as  good,"  continued  Bevis,  eluding  his  ques- 
tion— "  it  is  nearly  as  good  as  your  setting  up  to  lecture  me 
upon  this  subject.  I  must  say  the  cool  self-possession  of  you 
both  is  quite  remarkable !  My  intentions  respecting  Miss  Oli- 
via are^strictly  honorable,  whatever  yours  may  be  respecting 
the  other  lady" 

My  father  burst  forth,  "  I  will  trouble  you,  to  remember,  in 
my  presence,  that  the  lady  whom  you  dare  to  sneer  at,  I  hope 
to  make  my  wife !  For  any  further  remarks  made  in  your 
present  style,  you  will  have  to  be  answerable  to  me,  sir." 

Bevis  stopped  short.  "  Why,  Theodosius  Orel,"  said  he, 
"  shake  hands.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not  mean  to  offend 
you.  But  ....  you  are  joking! You 


304  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

don't  mean  to  say     ....!"     And  Bevis  finished  off 
each  uncompleted  sentence  with  a  short  contemptuous  laugh. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  upon  what  grounds  you  have  been 
pleased  to  base  such  vile  insinuations  ?"  cried  my  father.  "  I 
can  hardly  suppose  that  any  gentleman  would  dare  to  wound 
a  defenceless  widow  thus,  without  fancying  at  least  he  had 
some  slight  grounds " 

"  '  If  imputation  and  strong-  circumstances — 
Which  lead  directly  to  the  door  of  truth — 
Will  give  you  satisfaction,  you  may  have  it,' " 

interrupted  Bevis. 

"  You  may  well  quote  lago.  I  believe  you  are  playing  the 
very  part.  But  you  will  find  me  no  Othello,  sir." 

"  Listen  then,  Ord.  It  is  not  easy  to  make  you  hear  reason, 
you  are  so  excitable  on  this  subject.  I  have  known  all  along 
there  was  a  screw  loose  in  her  history.  I  have  seen  her  wince 
and  blush,  and  evade  questions,  from  the  time  she  first  arrived  in 
this  place.  All  about  her  was  not  open  and  above  board,  as 
all  that  concerns  female  honor  should  be.  And  you  may  lay 
it  down  as  a  general  rule — A  rule  without  exception  in  English 
society — that  the  woman  or  man,  close-mouthed  about  the  ante- 
cedents of  their  lives,  well  know  that  there  is  something  which 
will  not  bear  to  be  looked  at  too  keenly." 

"These  are  mere  general  assertions,  Mr.  Bevis,"  said  my 
father. 

"  1  am  coming  to  particulars.  Of  course  I  can  give  you  little 
positive  information  on  my  own  personal  knowledge.  But  I 
can  tell  you  the  impression  made  on  my  mind  by  conversation 
with  Olivia.  The  little  fool  is  tolerably  discreet,  too,  upon  this 
point,  and  this  alone ;  but  to-day,  when  she  heard  that  you 
and  Mrs.  Leonard  had  been  interfering  with  her  conduct,  her 
temp'er  got  the  better  of  her,  and  she  vowed  to  me  that  of  all 
the  impertinent  things  she  ever  heard,  was  her  setting  up  to 
read  lectures  on  propriety — that  if  I  only  knew  all  she 
knew.  .  .  .  And  she  stopped,  and  I  could  not  get  a  word 
more  out  of  her." 

"  Mere  malice  of  Olivia's,"  my  father  cried. 

"Oh !  if  you  are  going  to  reject  all  testimony  as  malicious,  it 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY.  305 

is  no  use  talking.  You  may  persist  in  considering  her  a  saint, 
but  you  cannot  prevent  otter  people  from  remembering  that 
the  character  of  a  female  saint  has  always  been  supposed  to 
combine  a  good  deal  of  the  'fair  penitent.'  Did  you  ever," 
he  continued,  seeing  my  father  was  turning  away,  "  did  you  ever 

hear  her  talk  of  the  village  of  S ,  a  place  of  some  celebrity, 

about  a  dozen  or  fifteen  miles  from  here  ?  I  suspect  you  never 
heard  her  mention  it.  A  short  time  after  she  came  here,  a 
travelling  pedlar  told  the  people  at  the  ale-house,  that  he  knew 
her  well,  and  knew  more  than  she  would  like  him  to  tell  us  of 
her  story.  He  said  he  had  seen  her — it  must  be  now  two  years 

ago — at  S ,  living  in  strict  retirement,  secluded  from  her 

relations  and  former  friends,  and  without  any  male  protector ; 
that  she  had  an  infant  born  there,  which  soon  died,  and  she  left 
the  place  almost  immediately  after,  with  a  good-looking  man, 
in  a  post-chaise.  There,  now,  is  a  series  of  facts,  which  I  sus- 
pect, in  all  the  intimacy  of  your  late  intercourse,  you  never 
heard  alluded  to  by  her." 

My  father  could  not  say  that  she  had  ever  made  the  least 
mention  of  any  such  passages  in  her  history.  He  feebly  tried, 
at  first,  to  prove  that  the  pedlar  must  have  been  mistaken  ;  but 
Bevis  was  positive  on  the  question  of  identity. 

"  I  know  I  have  made  you  angry  with  me,  Ord,  but  it  is 
for  your  true  good,"  said  he.  "  You  are  a  man  entirely 
above  caring  for  the  opinion  of  the  world,  but  still  I  do  not 

fancy  you  would  like  to  have  the  character  of  Mrs.  O 

mixed  up  with  the  beer  swilled  in  a  hedge  ale-house." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Bevis  turned  away,  muttering — "  '  Lift  not  up 
your  horn  on  high,  look  not  with  a  stiff  neck.'  I  could  preach 
a  profitable  sermon  upon  that  text  to  certain  people." 

As  to  my  father,  if  he  had  a  fault,  it  was,  as  I  have  said 
already,  an  extreme  sensitiveness  to  public  opinion,  as  Bevis 
knew  when  he  flattered  him  on  the  possession  of  a  quality  in 
which  he  was  quite  aware  of  his  deficiency.  The  fault  must 
have  been  inherited,  I  think,  for  he  shared  it  in  common  with 
his  cousin,  Capt.  Warner,  only  the  latter  was  more  easily 
swayed  by  his  feelings  than  my  father,  having  a  habit  of  taking 
the  bearings  of  things  in  relation  to  himself,  his  views  upon 


306  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

most  subjects  being  strictly  personal.  Of  course,  my  father  was 
a  man  superior  to  the  vulgar  influence  of  Vanity  Fair  on  points 
of  conscience ;  the  public  opinion  that  had  such  power  over 
him,  was  the  opinion  of  the  two  or  three  immediately  around 
him.  The  opinion  of  the  world  does  not  usually  break  upon  a 
man  at  once,  but  approaches  him  in  the  narrowing  circles  of 
acquaintance,  friendship,  connexion,  and  intimacy.  He  had  a 
candid  way  of  judging  things,  and  could  always  see  a  certain 
amount  of  reason  in  either  side  of  any  question  set  before  him. 

The  representations  of  Bevis  had  exceedingly  disturbed  him, 
He  turned,  as  that  gentleman  quitted  him,  and  walked  slowly 
back  in  the  direction  of  the  cottage.  Bevis  had  given  him  an 
altered  view  of  life,  and  showed  him  all  the  glory  of  his  hopes 
with  a  shadow  upon  them.  As  he  repassed  the  turnip  fields  at 
which  he  had  been  gazing,  he  felt  the  change  that  had  passed 
over  him.  He  had  no  longer  any  interest  in  the  rotation  of 
their  crops,  in  their  price,  or  their  production. 

He  walked  back  pretty  rapidly  to  the  cottage,  and  entered  the 
premises  by  the  garden.  As  he  crossed  the  strip  of  lawn,  and 
passed  by  the  open  window  of  the  sitting-room,  he  heard 
voices.  Olivia  was  using  the  very  words  which  Bevis  had 
attributed  to  her.  "  I  think,"  she  said,  in  an  excited  voice, 
"  that  for  you — for  YOU  to  throw  a  stone  at  me  on  the  ground 
of  impropriety,  is  the  most  audacious  piece  of  impudence  I 
ever  heard  of!" 

At  that  moment  both  the  sisters  caught  sight  of  Theodosius, 
and  Olivia  becoming  suddenly  silent,  flung  out  of  the  room, 
violently  slamming  the  door.  My  father,  on  coming  into  the 
room,  found  Amabel  standing  by  the  table  very  still  and  very 
pale,  looking  worn  out  and  suffering. 

"  I  am  very — that  is,  very  glad — I  am  very  glad  to — " 

The  effort  she  had  been  making,  during  the  discussion  with 
Olivia,  to  retain  the  mastery  of  her  feelings  and  of  her  indig- 
nation, had  been  too  much  for  her.  She  had  retained  her 
calmness  till  the  interview  was  over;  now  she  faltered,  and 
sank  down  in  the  nearest  chair.  My  father,  alarmed  by  her 
paleness,  was  about  to  ring  the  bell,  but  she  retained  presence 
of  mind  enough  to  prevent  his  doing  so,  and  pointed  to  a 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  307 

lavender-water  bottle  on  the  table.  He  brought  it  to  her,  and 
as  she  poured  its  contents  on  her  handkerchief,  and  bathed  her 
brow,  he  stood  and  looked  at  her.  Her  paleness,  her  air  of 
suffering,  her  womanly  dependence,  all  appealed  to  his  man- 
liness for  protection.  Was  he,  in  whom  she  had  placed  trust, 
who  had  had  such  opportunities  of  knowing  her,  to  abandon 
her  lightly  to  the  evil  tongues  of  others  ? 

He  had  come,  hoping  to  ask  her  some  questions,  but  was 
th_is  a  time  to  do  so  ?  And  yet  the  words  he  had  just  heard 
from  the  lips  of  Olivia — words  which  apparently  she  had  not 
reproved,  had  sent  an  arrow  to  his  heart,  and  he  could  not 
bear  to  leave  her  without  quieting,  in  some  degree,  his  doubts 
and  fears. 

At  last  he  said,  when  she  seemed  to  be  revived,  "Do  you 
know  how  far  it  is  to  S ?" 

"  Fifteen  miles  of  bad  road.  Do  you  think  of  going  there  ?" 
she  replied. 

"  I  thought  of  going  to-morrow  on  horseback,"  he  continued, 
uot  boldly,  however,  for  he  was  not  accustomed  to  approach  a 
subject  indirectly.  "  It  has  been  given  something  of  a  name 
in  print,  and  it  seems  a  pity  to  go  out  of  the  neighbourhood 
without  seeing  it." 

"  Are  you  going  to  leave  us  ?"  she  said.  She  was  wiping 
lavender-water  stains  from  her  dress,  and  he  did  not  see  her 
face.  He  did  not  answer  her  question,  but  said,  "  Were  you 
over  there  ?" 

"  Oh !  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  know  it  well.  The  first  sad  months 

after — of  my  widowed  life  were  passed  at  S .  There  my 

child  died." 

"  You  have  never  spoken  to  me  of  your  child." 

"The  wound  is  too  fresh,"  she  replied.  "I  should  upset 
myself  at  once,  and  you  see  how  much  I  require  self-command. 

If  you  go  to  S ,"  she  continued  after  a  pause,  "let  me 

give  you  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  Vicar ;  I  may  almost 
call  him  my  earliest  true  friend." 

So  saying  she  rose.  "  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,"  he  said, 
seizing  her  hand,  and  shaking  it  with  fervor.  "  How  white 
you  look !"  continued  he,  looking  tenderly  on  her  pale  face, 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

till  a  faint  blush  stole  over  it.     "  Had  you  not  better  go  and 
lie  down  ?" 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  be  cared  for,"  she  said.  "  But  Mr.  Ord — ," 
her  eye  caught  a  shadow  flitting  furtively  across  the  grass,  and 
she  put  her  hand  to  her  side  as  if  to  check  a  sudden  spasm. 
"  It  is  as  I  suspected.  There  goes  Olivia.  I  am  not  at  all 
equal  to  my  duty  towards  my  sister.  Mr.  Ord,  as  you  go  home, 
will  you  observe  if  she  meets  Bevis,  and,  if  you  can,  break  up 
their  interview  ?" 

"  I  hardly  like  to  play  the  spy,"  said  he. 

She  looked  up  quickly.  "  Perhaps  not,"  she  answered  with 
a  smile ;  "  but  no  one  can  so  graciously  fulfil  a  graceless  duty  as 
you." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  need  be  in  any  fear  of  Bevis.  I  met 
him  half  an  hour  ago  on  his  way  homeward." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  she  replied.  "  Responsibility  without 
power  is  a  great  trial.  Call  here  to-morrow  on  your  way  to 
S .  I  will  have  the  letter  ready  for  you." 

In  obedience  to  this  direction  he  presented  himself  the  next 
morning  before  the  gate  of  the  cottage,  mounted  on  a  shaggy, 
tawny  pony,  born  and  bred,  in  the  neighboring  forest,  in  the 
midst  of  a  drove  of  its  own  kind. 

The  fellow  who  owned  and  had  brought  him  up  from  the 

village,  had  been  over  once  or  twice  to  S ,  and  gave  my 

father  some  directions  for  his  journey.  He  was  to  cross  the 
Holt  Forest,  skirt  the  land  inclosed  for  the  Ranger's  House 
(he  would  know  it  by  the  unusual  magnitude  of  the  oaks  upon 
the  lawn),  then  to  bear  to  the  left  for  several  miles,  choosing 
his  way  among  the  cart  tracks,  and  at  a  certain  point  he  would 
meet  with  a  deep  ditch  and  a  gap  in  a  hedge,  through  which 
he  would  have  to  scramble,  and  was  to  be  careful  the  ponv 
did  not  kick  him  ofi'.  He  always  kicked  at  such  places — 
"  kicked  like  the  very  devil."  On  the  other  side  of  the  gap 
he  would  find  himself  in  a  rough  lane.  If  he  followed  it  a 
mile  or  two  he  would  fall  in  with  a  house,  and  might  then  ask 
his  way. 

Amabel  came  out  to  him  with  her  letter.  "  Here  it  is,"  she 
said.  "  The  Vicar  is  the  only  person  in  this  part  of  the  world 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  309 

who  really  knows  my  history.  I  felt  myself  at  liberty  to  reveal 
to  him  much  that  I  have  conscientiously  concealed  from  every 
other  person." 

"  And  from  me  ?"  said  my  father.  "  May  I  never  claim  the 
privilege  of  a  friend,  and  have  you  talk  to  me  of  yourself  and 
of  your  sorrows  ?" 

"  The  time  may  come,"  she  answered  gravely. 

"  Let  it  come  now  !"  he  cried. 

"  Not  yet.  There  are  things  I  may  only  speak  of  to  the 
man  of  God  I  have  chosen  for  my  spiritual  adviser,  and  .... 
my  husband." 

Strange  courtship !  And  yet  my  father  rode  away  displeased 
with  her  last  words.  It  seemed  to  him  she  was  leading  him  on 
too  fast,  that  she  was  making  a  little  too  sure  that  he  proposed 
to  be  her  husband.  I  do  not  say  that  he  thought  this,  but  he 
felt  it.  Pleasant  thoughts  did  not  come  easily  to  him  that 
morning.  We  have  all  had  experience  of  such  days.  When 
children  in  the  nursery,  we  knew  what  it  was  "  to  get  out  of 
bed  the  wrong  side,"  or  to  be  attended  by  "  the  black  dog ;" 
and,  in  Mahommedan  history,  it  is  told  of  Numan  bin  el  Man- 
zer,  an  Arab  prince  of  some  celebrity,  that  to  two  days  of  the 
week  he  had  given  names :  one  he  called  Naam,  the  day  of 
good  fortune ;  the  other  Bos,  or  the  day  of  evil.  All  petitioners 
who  came  to  him  on  Naam  he  dismissed  with  bounty ;  as  for  all 
who  came  during  that  he  called  B6s,  he  rolled  their  heads  in 
the  dust  of  the  earth  with  the  decree  of  execution. 

It  was  so  with  my  father.  All  the  pleasant  fancies  that 
presented  themselves  upon  this  evil  day  "  rolled  in  the  dust  of 
execution."  • 

That  part  of  the  forest  through  which  he  had  to  pass  was  a 
mere  dreary  barren  waste,  destitute  of  trees.  Here  and  there 
some  scathed  and  giant  oak,  inclosed  and  spared  when  all  its 
fellows  sank  under  the  stroke  of  the  woodman,  lifted  its  bare 
and  leafless  arms  to  heaven,  a  sort  of  witness  for  nature  against 
the  destructive  propensities  of  man. 

The  ground  over  which  his  pony  trod  was  full  of  sand  holes. 
It  had  none  of  the  beauty  of  the  purple  moorland ;  it  had  not 
even  the  green,  short,  smooth  turf  of  the  wild  commons  of 


310 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


Norfolk,  on  which  flocks  of  geese  pick  up  a  living.  All  was  a 
uniform  and  dingy  green ;  and  my  father,  sailor  though  he  was, 
and  fond  of  reckless  riding,  could  not  push  his  pony  fast 
through  this  uninteresting  district,  for  fear  of  his  setting  his 
feet  into  deep  holes. 

My  good  papa  was  glad  enough  to  find  himself  at  the  gap  in 
the  hedge  he  had  been  warned  of,  and  settling  himself  more 
firmly  on  his  beast,  he  attempted  to  push  him  through.  The 
vicious  little  brute  laid  his  ears  close  to  his  head,  and  sent  his 
heels  high  into  the  air,  but  my  father  stuck  tight  to  him,  hold- 
ing on  by  the  mane  as  well  as  by  his  knees,  and  was  rather 
proud  of  getting  safely  through  into  a  lane  so  astonishingly 
rugged  that  it  seemed,  as  I  have  before  described  it,  more  like 
the  rough  bed  of  a  watercourse  than  like  a  road.  It  also 
proved,  by  reason  of  a  late  rain,  extremely  slippery,  the  pony 
stumbling  and  sliding  at  every  step  over  large  blocks  of  wet 
stone.  It  was  long  past  noon  when  my  father  arrived  within 
sight  of  the  village.  There  nothing  had  been  altered  since 
Amabel  left  it,  two  years  before,  with  her  lawyer,  Mr.  Trevor. 
Outward  and  visible  changes  in  the  street  had  been  sparingly 
made  during  the  past  half  century.  The  yews  had  looked  no 
younger  fifty  years  before ;  the  church  then  lay  as  closely 
shrined  in  ivy  ;  a  few  of  the  stone  cottages  of  the  peasantry  had 
indeed  renewed  their  thatch,  but  on  the  roofs  of  many  grew 
the  same  gay  wall-flowers  and  fat  leeks  which  had  been  planted 
by  the  fathers  of  the  present  generation. 

My  father  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  the  parsonage  ;  and 
having  dismounted  at  the  Royal  Stag,  leaving  his  jaded  pony  in 
the  hands t>f  the  ostler  of  that  place  of  entertainment,  he  walked 
across  the  green  to  the  gate  of  the  Vicar.  A  tax-cart  was  stand- 
ing before  it,  the  horse  held  by  a  smart  boy  about  ten  years 
old ;  who,  in  reply  to  the  stranger's  inquiry,  informed  him  that 
the  Vicar  had  just  been  sent  for  to  the  utmost  boundary  of  his 
parish,  to  fulfil  the  double  duty  of  pastor  and  of  magistrate. 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Theodosius,  "  take  this  letter  in  to  him, 
my  boy ;  I  will  hold  the  horse  while  you  go." 

After  a  few  moments  the  Vicar  came  out  of  the  house  with 
the  note  still  in  his  hand. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT.  311 

"  How  is  the  lady,  sir  ?  She  speaks  of  you  as  one  of  her  true 
friends." 

"And  no  less  so,  sir,  of  you.  How  long  have  you  been  ac- 
quainted with  her '?"  said  my  father. 

"  I  received  her  when  she  came  friendless  and  alone  into  this 
part  of  the  country,"  said  the  Vicar,  referring,  as  he  spoke,  to 
the  letter  in  his  hand.  It  said,  "  The  gentleman  I  introduce  to 
you  is  the  cousin  and  most  intimate  friend  of  my  husband.  Ho 
has  come  here  to  examine  into  the  tenor  of  my  life  since  its 
catastrophe,  and  to  effect  our  reconciliation.  Need  I,  my 
deai;  friend,  tell  you  how  hope  and  happiness  now  seem  to 
smile  upon  me?  He  has,  howeverj  never  alluded  in  express 
terms  to  the  circumstances  of  the  past.  I  presume  he  has  been 
made  acquainted  with  the  narrative  I  wrote  to  my  husband 
while  my  sweet  baby  was  still  living,  and  therefore  I  had 
rather  not  speak  to  him  myself  of  past  events,  nor  do  I  wish 
you  to  allude  to  them  further  than  he  may  lead  you.  I 
imagine  the  purpose  of  both  is,  not  to  inquire  into  the  truth 
of  my  letter  (at  least  such  inquiries  are  not  to  be  made 
here),  but  they  wish  to  ascertain  how  I  have  spent  my  life  since 
the  terrible  separation ;  whether  I  am  more  worthy  of  trust ; 
whether,  to  use  your  own  quotation,  '  the  present  day  has  been 
the  better  for  yesterday's  error.'  Say  what  you  can  for  me, 
dear  friend,  with  a  due  regard  to  truth,  and  believe  that  your 
counsels  and  your  kindliness  never  can  be  forgotten  by  one 
who  is  equally  bound  to  you  by  ties  of  deep  respect  and  true 
regard." 

u  She  tells  me,  sir,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  that  you  would  like  to 
satisfy  some  doubts  by  making  inquiries.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
answer  any  questions  you  may  ask ;  but  I  am  not  quite  sure 
from  what  she  says  how  far  she  would  wish  me  to  volunteer 
my  information." 

"  I  do  not  mean,  of  course,"  said  my  father,  "  to  ask  you  to 
betray  anything  that  Mrs.  Leonard  would  rather  conceal." 

fa  You  will  learn  the  circumstances  of  her  history,  best,  I  think, 
from  her  own  lips,  or  her  own  pen ;  but  I  fancy  she  wishes  me 
to  bear  testimony  that,  after  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  her 
for  many  months,  during  which  she  opened  her  heart  to  tne  as 


312  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

her  friend  and  pastor,  no  doubt  remains  upon  my  mind  that  she 
is  not  only  pure  in  fact  but  pure  in  heart.'' 

"  That  is,  an  honorable  man  need  not  fear I  feel 

ashamed,  sir,  knowing  her  as  I  have  done,  to  ask  this  question» 
to  take  her  as  his  wife,  and  to  be  proud  of  her  ?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  had  I  known  her  husband,  I  should  have  said  to 
him  long  ago,  '  fear  not  to  take  unto  thee  thy  wife,'  "  replied  the 
Vicar. 

u  What  became  of  him  ?"  exclaimed  my  father. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Vicar  in  surprise. 

"  He  must  have  been  cruelly  violent  and  unjust  to  her,"  said 
my  father. 

"  There  were  falSe  friends  and  many  circumstances  that  may 
well  have  deceived  him,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  There  is  plenty  of 
heathenism  in  our  modern  code  of  honor.  Our  pattern  man 
is  modelled,  not  after  Christ,  but  after  Achilles !  Sometimes 
prompt  anger  and  injustice  seem  to  him  almost  a  duty.  I  am 
not,  however,  going  to  acquit  her  husband.  I  think  that,  having 
married  one  so  young  and  inexperienced,  and  having  bound  him- 
self to  love,  cherish,  and  protect  her,  he  should  have  borne  with 
her.  Instead  of  which,  having  planted  her  as  it  were  into  the 
place  provided  for  his  wife,  he  had  not  patience  to  wait  till  she 
had  adapted  herself  to  the  climate  and  the  soil." 

"  I  have  heard  a  clever  friend  say  that  the  world  is  made  up 
of  round  holes  and  square  holes,  and  round  people  get  into  the 
square,  and  square  people  into  the  round,"  replied  my  father. 

"  That  is  particularly  the  case  at  the  commencement  or  mar- 
ried life,"  returned  the  Vicar,  "  and  woman's  pliability  enables 
her,  if  at  first  a  little  humored,  soon  to  adapt  herself  to  her  hole 
and  its  proportions.  However,  she  was  more  to  blame  than  he, 
and  for  this  reason.  From  what  I  understand  of  him,  I  think 
he  was  a  man  who,  with  native  kindliness  of  heart  and  gene- 
rosity of  feeling,  had  little  power  of  discriminating  character. 
Indeed  I  suspect  he  would  have  learned  to  appreciate  his  wife 
more  through  the  warmth  of  his  heart  than  the  clearness  of  his 

O 

understanding.  She,  on  the  contrary,  should  have  taken  the 
initiative.  She  was  quite  capable  of  appreciating  his  character, 
of  adapting  herself  to  his  tastes,  and  of  winning  his  respect  and 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  313 

admiration.  But,  sir,"  he  continued,  being,  as  we  know,  a 
little  long-winded,  "  I  am  sorry  that  indispensable  business  calls 
me  away,  and  that  my  wife  is  passing  a  few  weeks  at  the  sea- 
side. I  shall  be  home  probably  this  evening,  and  if  you  will  do 
me  the  favor  to  pass  the  night,  I  have  a  few  bottles  of  old 
Sherry,  over  which  I  will  discuss  this  matter  more  at  length 
with  you." 

"  One  question  more,"  said  my  father,  as  the  Vicar  was  get- 
ting into  his  cart  and  gathering  up  his  reins ;  "  one  question 
more.  Why  did  she  come  down  here  for  her  confinement,  away 
from  all  her  friends  and  her  connexions  ?" 

"  So  ho !  so  ho !"  cried  the  Vicar  to  his  horse.  "  That  is 
easily  explained,  sir.  She  was  recommended  here  by  the  Dry- 
dens,  old  people  of  her  village,  who  came  from  this  part  of  the 
country." 

Here,  the  Vicar's  horse,  tired  of  waiting,  tossed  his  head  and 
started  from  the  door. 

My  father,  having  partaken  of  a  woolly  mutton  chop  and  a 
bottle  of  bitter  port  wine  at  the  Royal  Stag,  wandered  into  the 
church-yard,  and  stood  by  the  grave  of  little  Leonard,  under- 
neath the  yews. 

The  sun  was  sinking  towards  the  west,  yet  it  was  not  going 
down  upon  the  day's  ill-feelings.  A  few  hours'  absence  had 
made  her  dearer  to  him  than  ever.  He  gazed  into  the  western 
sky,  and  built  up  airy  castles.  "  I  can  be  her  all  on  earth !" 
he  cried.  "What  man  would  not  desire  to  be  all  things  to  the 
wife  he  loves  ?" 

A  yearning  to  tell  her  so  took  possession  of  him ;  a  desire  to 
see  her  before  night-fall ;  a  longing  to  acquire,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, the  right  to  shelter  and  protect  her. 

"  Why  should  I  wait  ?"  he  cried.  "  Do  I  not  now  know  all 
I  came  to  know  ?  Why  should  I  stay  for  that  good  man's 
return  ?  To-morrow,  to-morrow  she  is  mine  !  When  I  clasp 
her  to  the  shelter  of  my  breast  will  she  not  whisper  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  her  history  ?" 

So  thinking,  my  father  took  leaye  of  the  churchyard  and 
remounted  his  pony.  All  sorts  of  pleasant  meditations  came 
with  the  deepening  twilight.  His  fancy  took  its  own  way,  so 

14 


814  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

did  his  quadruped.  Suddenly  he  found  himself  on  his  back  on 
the  other  side  of  the  gap,  while  the  pony,  kicking,  as  his  owner 
had  said,  like  the  "  very  devil,"  was  gallopping  with  streaming 
rein  towards  home. 

Amabel  was  sitting  with  Horace  by  the  river's  side.  The 
poor  fellow  had  enjoyed  that  day.  He  had  spent  it  with  her, 
taking  pleasure  as  the  blind  do,  in  showing  skill  in  various  little 
household  avocations.  Captain  Talbot  was  asleep  in  the  twi- 
light. They  had  talked  of  gaieties  and  gravities ;  now  Horace 
was  showing  her  some  sleight-of-hand.  Bevis  had  gone  over  to 
the  market  town  that  afternoon.  She  was  relieved  from  her 
anxiety,  and  her  heart  was  very  happy. 

"Hark!"  said  Horace,  "here  comes  Ord,  at  the  true  sailor's 
pace !" 

Suddenly  the  pony  stopped,  tossed  his  vicious-looking  head 
at  them  over  the  hedge,  and  then  resumed  his  gallop  to  the 
village. 

Amabel  screamed  at  the  sight  of  the  empty  saddle.  "  Oh, 
Horace  1"  she  cried,  "  we  must  get  help.  Oh,  Horace,  how 
dreadful !" 

In  moments  of  emerge  acy  the  true  relation  of  the  sexes 
adjusts  itself  instinctively.  What  woman,  in  sudden  mutual 
grief,  does  not,  by  impulse,  become  a  comforter,  and  in  mo- 
ments of  alarm  as  naturally  look  at  once  to  the  nearest  person 
of  the  other  sex  to  shelter  and  protect  her  ?  Perhaps  at  no 
moment  of  poor  Horace's  life  was  he  more  proud  than  when 
she  thus  involuntarily  acknowledged  the  claims  of  his  man- 
hood ;  when  she  clung  to  him  and  shuddered,  and  he  felt, 
though  blind,  he  was  protecting  her. 

After  a  few  moments  her  presence  of  mind  returned.  Horace 
thought  that  they  had  better  go  at  once  to  the  Hill  Farm,  and 
thence  despatch  help,  as  the  pony  would  give  the  alarm  in  the 
village.  They  got  together  two  or  three  stout  men,  and  sent 
them  off  upon  the  road.  Amabel  returned  meanwhile  to  the 
cottage,  while  Horace  remained  at  the  farm,  whence  he  engaged 
to  send  her  word  whatever  happened. 

Late  in  the  evening — past  ten  o'clock — my  father  rang  at  the 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  315 

cottage  door.  Amabel,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  flew  down 
to  open  it 

"  I  am  come  to  report  myself,"  said  he  ;  "  to-night  I  feel  a 
little  jarred  —  to-morrow  I  shall  be  as  '  right  as  a  trivet.'  " 

"  I  shall  not  ask  you  to  come  in,"  she  said,  after  a  few  words 
about  his  fall  had  passed.  "  It  is  too  late." 

"  No  ;  but  dear  Amabel,"  he  cried,  seizing  her  hand,  "  to- 
morrow will  you  not  give  me  a  quiet  hour  ?  I  have  so  much  I 
want  to  say  to  you.  Meantime  I  have  brought  you  something 
that  you  may  value  ;  a  violet  from  .... 

"  From  the  grave  of  my  child.  Do  you  know,"  she  added, 
"  that  of  late  —  since  we  have  met  —  I  have  indulged  again  in 
day  dreams.  Sometimes  I  see  myself  once  more  the  happy 
wife  ;  sometimes  sweet  baby  faces,  with  fair  curls,  seem  clus- 
tering round  my  knee. 


I  seek  to  take  a  lily  hand 
And  kiss  a  rosy  chin. 

And  in  the  midst  of  such  thoughts  came,  as  I  lay  awake  last 
night,  a  vision  of  the  morning  of  the  Resurrection.  I  imagined 
myself  lying  in  the  grave,  with  monument  and  name,  and  round 
me  slept  my  family  of  children.  I  had  a  mother's  heart  for  all  ; 
yet,  as  the  great  trumpet  sounded,  and  we  rose,  I  clasped  my 
pale  lost  darling  to  my  breast,  strained  hi  my  arms,  and  nestling 
in  my  bosom." 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

Inseeing  sympathy  is  hers,  which  chasteneth 

No  less  than  loveth,  scorning  to  be  bound 

With  fear  of  blame  ;  but  whichever  hasteneth 

To  pour  the  balm  of  kind  word#  in  the  wound — 

If  they  be  wounds  which  such  sweet  teaching  makes — 

Giving  itself  a  pang  for  others'  sakes. 

Irene     3.  R.  LOWELL. 

"  HORACE,"  said  my  father,  bending  over  his  blind  cousin ;  "  I 
have  something  I  want  to  say  to  her.  I  wish  you  would  leave 
us  a  little  while  alone." 


316  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

It  was  the  following  afternoon ;  she  was  sitting  again  with 
Horace  on  the  rustic  bench  by  the  side  of  the  little  river.  Horace 
had  been  persuading  her  to  put  her  hands  on  his,  and  try  if  she 
could  draw  them  back  more  quickly  than  he  could  grasp  them. 
He  was  very  expert  at  this  amusement :  she  was  caught  again 
and  again.  Horace  wag  delighted  at  his  triumph ;  and  their 
mutual  laughter  rang  over  the  water. 

When  his  cousin  came  up  to  him,  laid  his  hand  upon  his 
arm,  and  whispered  his  request,  the  smile  faded  from  his  face. 
But,  getting  up,  he  said  at  once,  "  Good  bye,  Mrs.  Leonard,  I 
believe  I  must  go.  Do  not  come  with  me,"  continued  he,  find- 
ing she  had  risen  to  assist  him.  "No — no,"  he  whispered, 
when  they  were  a  little  withdrawn  from  Theodosius,  "  stay  with 
him.  He  has  something  to  say  to  you.  May  you  be  happy — 
very  happy.  My  warmest  wishes  go  with  you." 

"  Give  me  a  prayer,  dear  Horace,"  she  said,  trembling,  "  one 
little  prayer  may  turn  a  vague  good  wish  into  a  blessing." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  he.  " '  Prier,  c'est  dire  que  Von  aime? 
For  one  prayer  that  I  offer  for  myself,  my  heart  says  two  for 
you." 

So  saying,  Horace  turned  away ;  she  watched  him  anxiously 
till  he  reached  the  upper  terrace  of  the  garden,  then  stooped  and 
gathered  thoughtfully  a  few  flowers.  My  father,  when  she 
raised  her  head,  was  at  her  side.  He  drew  her  arm  through  his, 
and  led  her  back  to  the  seat  beside  the  water. 

I  cannot  tell  how  a  man  feels  when  he  is  about  to  make  an 
offer,  but  I  know  how  a  woman  feels  when  she  thinks  she  is  going 
to  receive  one.  There  is  hardly  in  her  life  a  more  uncomfort- 
able moment.  She  is  too  nervous  to  talk  calmly  upon  common 
things.  She  fears,  by  some  rash  word  or  look,  to  precipitate  the 
event  and  compromise  her  modesty.  She  tries  to  veil  her  heart, 
to  maintain  a  calm  reserve.  In  a  few  moments  she  may  con- 
cede to  him  the  right,  the  holy  right,  to  look  into  her  heart — 

Ce  coeur  dont  rien  ne  reste, 
L'amour  ote. 

But  now — for  just  this  little  while — he  must  not  even  guess  at 
what  she  hides  from  him.     She  is  like  little  children  on  the  eve 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY    HISTORY.  317 

of  a  surprise,  when,  though  their  mother  well  knows  what  is 
coming,  she  lets  them  climb  upon  her  lap  and  cover  up  her 
eyes  with  eager  fingers. 

The  holier  a  woman's  heart,  the  greater  her  reserve  in  such 
an  hour.  The  deeper  her  own  feelings,  the  less  is  her  power 
over  those  of  her  lover. 

I  have  known  men  who  mistook  the  self-consciousness  and 
timidity  of  such  moments  for  indifference.  I  have  known 
women,  like  unskilful  chess-players,  succeed  in  reducing  the 
other  party  to  extremity,  without  the  power  of  completing  the 
game  by  a  check-mate. 

Though  Amabel  was  not  expecting  an  offer  of  marriage,  her 
feelings  were  very  much  the  same  as  those  I  have  adverted  to. 
She  feared  to  urge  on  what  he  had  to  say,  even  by  her  silence. 
She  anxiously  searched  for  any  observation  possible  to  make, 
BO  trivial  that  it  might  not  even  appear  designed  to  prompt 
him. 

At  that  moment  they  heard  the  voice  of  little  Joe  calling 
her. 

"  Don't  go  to  that  child.  Give  me  time  to  speak,"  cried  my 
father.  "  I  cannot  bear  the  claims  that  are  made  upon  you  by 
these  people.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  from  morning  till 
night  the  slave  of  their  caprices." 

"  And  I  answer,"  replied  Amabel,  "  that  you  always  err  in 
your  judgment  upon  such  points.  The  person  who  is  prone  to 
fancy  he  could  do  God  better  service  in  a  higher  grade,  is  not 
yet  equal  to  the  station  that  he  occupies.  The  glory  of  a 
woman,  '  Jest  mains  encore  qu'elle  suffit  au  travail  de  chaque 
jour,  que  le  travail  de  chaque  jour  lui  suffit?  " 

"  Your  teachings,"  exclaimed  my  father,  "  unlike  the  teach- 
ings of  anybody  else,  are  drawn  from  your  experience.  You 
know  already  what  my  heart  is  longing  to  express.  You  know 
I  have  never  yet  seen,  or  hope  to  see  your  equal.  You  won 
my  heart  from  the  moment  I  first  talked  with  you.  Amabel  ! 
I  dare  not  say  you  are  in  my  eyes  less  a  woman  than  an  angel. 
It  is  your  womanliness  that  charms  me ." 

"  Mr.  Ord  !"  she  cried,  "  you  know  best  your  own  meaning. 
Is  this  language  to  be  addressed  to  me  by  you  ?n 


318  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   BISTORT. 

"  It  is  the  language  of  a  lover  to  the  object  of  his  devo- 
tion," he  exclaimed. 

She  sprang  up  suddenly.  The  flowers  that  she  held  fell  at 
her  feet. 

"  Do  not  finish  that  sentence,"  she  cried.  "  I  will  endeavor 
to  forget  it  was  ever  begun." 

She  had  thrown  herself  again  upon  the  bench,  her  face  was 
hidden,  but  her  whole  frame  shook  with  her  weeping. 

"  Alas  !  beloved,  you  must  indeed  have  fallen  upon  evil  men 
and  evil  times.  We  are  not  all  like  Bevis,"  said  my  father. 
"  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  to  preface  my  confession  by  the 
declaration  that  my  love  for  you  was  not  an  insult.  I  beseech 
you  give  me  a  husband's  right  to  protect  and  make  you  happy ; 
and  make  the  little  I  possess  better  and  dearer  than  other 
men's  great  wealth,  because  shared  with  you.  Let  me  in  turn 
participate  in  your  secrets  and  your  sorrows." 

"  Say  that  again — say  that  again  !"  she  cried.  "  Let  me  be 
sure  I  heard  aright  !  Strike  the  death-blow  of  my  hopes 
firmly — repeatedly.  Make  sure  that  not  one  lives.  Let  me  be 
certain  there  is  no  mistake  this  time." 

"  Dearest !  I  woo  you  with  all  respect  and  all  devotion. 
These  tears,  beloved,  are  the  last  that  those  dear  eyes  shall 
shed." 

And  stooping  down  he  kissed  her  drapery  and  her  unresisting 
hand.  He  was  eager  to  give  her  some  token  of  a  sympathy 
for  which  he  found  no  words. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  of  his  caresses.  She  started  up, 
drew  her  hand  brusquely  from  his  lips,  and  by  an  involuntary 
impulse  brushed  the  back  of  it  against  her  dress,  as  if  to  wipe 
from  it  his  kisses. 

"  Mr.  Ord,"  said  she,  "  no  more  of  this.  A  frightful  mistake 
has  been  encouraged.  Your  disappointment  can  be  nothing  to 
my  suffering.  You  must  strangle  all  your  brood  of  pleasant 
fancies  almost  at  their  birth,  but  mine  were  full  grown  hopes, 
and  such  die  hard.  Reproach  me  as  you  will — you  cannot 
blame  me  as  I  blame  myself." 

She  paused  a  moment,  as  it  seemed,  to  gather  strength,  and 
hid  her  face ;  she  was  probably  in  prayer. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  319 

"  Hear  me,  Mr.  Ord,"  she  exclaimed,  laying  her  hand  upon 
his  arm  with  the  dignity  of  command.  "  Hear  me,  and  look 
into  my  eyes.  Be  sure  you  feel  that  I  say  the  truth,  although 
I  speak  in  riddles.  I  cannot  explain  this  mystery.  I  thought 

you  knew .    No  matter  now,  blame  me  for  all .    No  ! 

do  not  blame  me,  I  cannot  endure  blame  from  you.  The 
present  must  bear  the  misunderstandings  of  the  past,  but  let 
there  be  no  mistake  between  us  on  the  subject  of  the  future. 

"We  must  never  meet  again,  unless .    Oh !  but  that  cannot 

be  !"  she  cried,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  grief.  "  We  must  never 
meet  again.  I  conjure  you  to  leave  Sandrock  for  your  own 
sake  and  for  mine.  There  is  no  hope.  No  suit  man  ever 
made  to  woman,  has  suffered  a  rejection  more  hopeless — more 
complete  than  yours  to  me." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Leonard,  how  is  this  ?"  exclaimed  my  father. 
"  Surely  you  encouraged  me  to  hope." 

"  I  know  I  did — I  know  I  did,  but  it  .was  all  a  mistake,  a 
fatal,  terrible  mistake.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Ord — or  if  you  will  not 
believe  me  on  my  word,  hear  me  swear  solemnly,  that  I  never 
once  thought  of  you  in  the  light  of  a  lover.  I  believed  you  my 
best  earthly  friend.  I  thought  you  knew ." 

"  Tell  me  but  this,"  my  father  cried,  "  has  any  other  man  a 
prior  claim  to  your  regard." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  cried,  with  a  slightly  impatient  proud  move- 
ment of  her  head.  "  Yes,  sir, — my  husband." 

"  And  is  his  memory  my  only  rival  ?  A  man  who  could  be 
violent,  unjust.  Ah  !  Amabel,  in  time ." 

"  Violent ! — unjust !"  she  cried,  and  her  eyes  lighted. 

"  The  Vicar  told  me  so — or  rather,"  said  my  father,  struck 
by  her  air  of  indignation,  "  the  words  themselves  may  have 
been  mine.  The  Vicar  gave  me  the  impression." 

" If  he  was  ever  unjust"  she  said,  " it  was  because  he  pro- 
nounced judgment  upon  insufficient  premises.  If  he  was 
violent,  it  was  because  he  was  concerned,  as  every  man  should 
be,  for  the  maintenance  of  his  honor !  Your  own  lips  have 
acquitted  him,"  she  continued,  remembering  the  words  she" 
had  heard  between  Theodosius  Ord  himself,  and  the  second  of 
Col.  Guiscard,  in  the  gallery  of  Foxley.  "  I  mean,  you  would 


320  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

acquit  him I  mean .  No,"  said  she,  calming  her- 
self, "  I  cannot  explain  all.  The  secret  I  have  kept  so  far 
shall  not  leak  out  in  hints.  Only,  I  repeat,  do  not  deceive 
yourself.  ,  Do  not  imagine  you  have  won  a  tenderness  that, 
under  other  circumstances,  might  have  ripened  into  love.  I  do 
not  wish  to  leave  you  the  smallest  ground  of  hope.  Such 
hopes  as  you  have  formed  are'  an  insult  to  me." 

"  I  must  understand  you  better,"  said  my  father.  "  It  cannot 
be  possible  I  have  been  misinformed  by  your  own  family,  that 
you  are  not  a  widow,  but  a  wife — your  husband  cannot  be 
living  ?" 

"  Yes  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Ask  me  no  further  questions,  Mr. 
Ord.  My  husband  is  alive !  /  love  my  husband  /" 

There  was  nothing  angry  in  her  voice,  it  was  very  sad  and 
very  sweet,  but  there  was  a  firmness  in  its  tone  which  brought 
conviction. 

"  Farewell,"  she  said  at  length ;  "  until  you  have  left  Sand- 
rock  I  shall  not  quit  my  chamber.  Forgive  me — forget  me." 

She  turned  to  go  up  the  steep  terraces.  He  walked  in 
silence  by  her  side.  When  they  had  nearly  reached  the  top, 
she  paused  upon  the  spot,  whence  on  the  night  he  had  seen  her 
on  the  lawn,  he  had  watched  her.  He  was  trying  to  conceal 
his  tears,  but  she  remarked  them.  It  is  so  painful,  on  such 
occasions,  to  see  a  man  weep. 

"  Mrs.  Leonard,"  said  he,  "  one  word  before  I  leave  you.  Is 
there  nothing  I  can  ever  do  to  make  you  happy  ?  I  ask  nothing 
for  myself." 

"  Think  as  kindly  of  me  as  you  can.  Believe  that  I  have 
given  you  less  pain  than  I  suffer.  One  of  these  days,  when  you 
are  married,  we  may  meet  again." 

My  father  winced  as  if  the  very  thought  of  his  marriage  were 
suffering. 

"  I  know,"  said  she,  "  you  think  my  words  unkind ;  never- 
theless I  trust  the  time  may  come  when  you  will  remember, 
either  with  pleasure  or  indifference,  that  I  anticipated  your 
marriage." 

"  Oh,  Amabel !"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  bear  to  give  you  up. 
To  know  that  you  are  living  here,  in  the  midst  of  danger  and 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  321 

of  difficulty,  with  Bevis  near  you.  Let  me  stay  here  and  be 
your  friend.  Do  not  send  me  away.  Let  me  protect  you." 

"Our  God  is  my  protector,"  she  said,  solemnly.  "Theodo- 
sius,  we  have  taken  sweet  counsel  together  ;  we  have  walked  in 
the  House  of  God  as  friends.  In  thinking  of  me  remember 
only  such  hours.  Farewell !" 

She  was  gone !  The  sun  had  set !  Twilight  had  lost  its 
rosy  glow,  and  deepened  into  darkness.  He  walked  back  to 
the  rustic  bench  where  she  had  sat,  and  gathered  up  the  flowers 
she  had  scattered  on  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Fasten  your  souls  so  high  that  constantly 
The  sound  of  your  heroic  cheer  may  float 
Above  all  floods  of  earthly  agonies, — 
Purification  being  the  joy  of  pain 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

"  WHO,  passing  through  the  Vale  of  Misery,  make  it  a  well ;  the 
rain  thereof  filleth  the  pools."  This  beautiful  verse  of  Scrip- 
ture may  be  called  a  sort  of  motto  to  Amabel's  thoughts  as  she 
quitted  the  cottage,  on  the  following  afternoon,  equipped  for 
walking.  My  father  had  received  from  her  on  the  previous 
evening  a  packet  containing  his  portfolio.  No  note  or  message 
accompanied  the  verses,  but  some  pages  of  the  manuscript  were 
blistered  by  fresh  tears.  He  returned  her  a  short  note  in  which, 
conscientiously  avoiding  all  expressions  of  attachment,  he 
informed  her  that  being  desirous  to  consult  her  pleasure,  he 
should  go  to  town  by  the  mail  of  the  next  evening,  and  trusted 
that  this  arrangement  would  not  confine  her  all  the  next  day, 
as  she  had  threatened,  to  the  house,  as  he  would  make  no  fur- 
ther attempt  to  seek  an  interview. 

She  had  received  a  message  from  a  sick  woman  at  Churt,  a 
small  hamlet  lying  in  exactly  an  opposite  direction  to  the  Hill 
Farm.  To  reach  it  from  the  cottage  she  had  to  pass  over  the 
wildest  and  most  desolate  part  of  the  heath.  Churt  was  ap- 

14* 


822  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

preached  by  no  high  road,  and  was  nearly  three  miles  from  the 
village.  The  case  appeared  to  be  one  of  pressing  necessity, 
and  reassured  by  the  promise  of  my  father  that  he  would  not 
try  to  meet  her,  she  started  alone  about  six  o'clock,  to  cross  this 
tract  of  desolation. 

"  Who,  passing  through  the  Vale  of  Misery,  make  it  a  well ; 
the  rain  thereof  filleth  the  pools."  Thus  said  her  heart.  The 
thought  became  a  prayer,  the  prayer  a  prophecy,  from  which 
she  turned  to  the  records  of  her  life,  and  found  the  truth  the 
Psalmist  taught  was  written  there. 

Why,  in  this  world,  is  there  sorrow  upon  sorrow  ?  Why  ? — 
ah  !  why  ?  Each  thinking  soul  is  sooner  or  later  startled  by 
this  question.  Sermons  are  preached,  and  books  are  written  on 
the  subject,  and  others  try  to  force  on  us  their  own  'conclusions. 
It  is  of  little  use.  Each  must  answer  the  great  question  for 
himself. 

Amabel  walked   on,  trying  to   find  her   answer,  and  her 
thoughts  resulted  in  a  paradox.     Sorrow  is  essential  to  perfec 
tion ;  therefore,  is  necessary  to  happiness. 

"  Will  not  this  view,"  thought  she,  "  account  in  part  for  the 
strange  truth,  that  of  sorrow  it  may  be  said,  '  to  him  that  hath 
shall  be  given  ?'  The  purest,  holiest,  best  of  men — those  whom 
we  should  think  least  needing  the  discipline  of  grief,  are  often 
those  most  called  on  to  suffer  and  endure." 

"  Ah !"  she  thought,  "  how  different  is  man's  judgment  from 
God's  judgment — our  finite  benevolence  from  the  benevolence 
of  infinity.  If  an  unlimited  power  of  conferring  happiness  and 
of  icmedying  evil  were  bestowed  on  one  of  us,  how  would  he 
fly  at  once  to  make  the  crooked  paths  straight,  and  the  rough 
places  plain.  He  would  restore  me  to  the  arms  of  my  dear 
husband ;  the  mother  weeping  over  her  dead  son  would  embrace 
a  living  child ;  the  sickly  would  be  healthy ;  Lazarus  sit  in  pur- 
ple beside  Dives : — and  our  Father  in  Heaven  has  the  power  to 
do  this,  and  not  the  will.  Is  His  benevolence  less  than  our 
common  impulses  of  kindness  ?  Or  rather  is  it  not  love  that 
will  not  heed  our  hearts'  desire:  wisdom  that  withholdeth 
the  request  of  our  lips  ?" 

"  After  all,"  said  Amabel,  "  as  we  advance  in  life,  what  thing 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  323 

that  we  possess  would  we  relinquish  the  least  willingly  I  Is  it 
not  our  experience  in  sorrow  ?  Who  would  be  willing  to  have 
subtracted  from  himself  all  he  has  learnt  from  trial?  Who 
would  not  tremble  at  the  thought  of  being  cut  off  from  the  power 
of  heart  sympathy — from  his  fellowship  in  that  freemasonry 
whereby  hearts  recognise  each  other's  discipline  in  the  great 
school  of  adversity  ?" 

"  Patience  is  bitter,  but  bears  sweet  fruits,"  says  the  Arab 
proverb. 

Horace  always  said,  that  Amabel  was  like  those  bees  which 
gather  honey  from  stinging  nettles. 

She  could  not  look  into  the  past  without  seeing  that  the  pre- 
vious sorrows  of  her  life  had  been  her  best  preparation  for  her 
present  disappointment.  The  first,  real,  bitter  grief  is  a  thou- 
sand fold  the  worst  to  bear,  because  it  brings  a  sense  of  insecu- 
rity, and  lets  the  daylight  of  reality  break  in  upon  delusions. 
"We  fear  and  hate,"  says  the  author  of  Yeast,  "the  utterly 
unknown,  and  it  only."  A  second  sorrow  finds  us  more  pre- 
pared. We  have  the  remains  of  our  entrenched  position, 
thrown  up  in  fear  and  haste  when  the  first  invader  came,  to 
depend  on  and  retire  to. 

So  Amabel,  though — as  she  had  said  to  my  father — the  sud- 
den slaughter  of  her  hopes  was  terrible  to  bear,  was  by  no 
means  so  unhappy  as  we  have  already  seen  her.  Her  present 
position,  her  present  interests  in  life,  were  not  affected  by  this 
disappointment.  She  was  called  upon  only  to  sacrifice  her 
dreams. 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  why  Mr.  Ord 
is  always  pitying  me  for  the  petty  annoyances  of  my  present 
position.  If  he  only  knew  how  much  more  dreadful  it  is  to  be 
adrift  on  the  great  ocean  of  life  without  any  responsibilities,  any 
duties,  any  ties." 

She  thanked  God,  who  had  hired  her  into  His  vineyard ;  who 
had  given  her  work — ';  work,  at  any  price ;" — for  the  sense  of 
independence  that  comes  from  hearty  labor,  and  the  interest 
it  awakens  if  undertaken  aright. 

"  Ah !"  she  said,  smiling  at  her  own  conceit,  "  is  not  life, 
after  all,  a  tangled  mass  of  sei-weed,  such  as  the  ocean  throws 


324  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

up  everywhere  along  its  shore.  When  we  separate  a  portion 
from  the  rest,  and  dip  it  again  into  its  element,  how  beautiful 
is  every  fragment  we  have  rescued !  We  regret  that  our  time 
by  the  sea-side  is  so  short,  that  we  can  never  half  develope  or 
investigate  the  portion  we  have  grasped  out  of  the  thick  of  the 
vast  mass  that  we  must  abandon.  It  is  in  the  world  of  human 
interests  as  it  is  in  the  world  of  nature." 

As  she  thought  thus,  she  began  to  feel  that  her  basket 
was  heavy  on  her  arm,  she  set  it  down  upon  the  turf.  Her 
puppy,  scenting  something  savory  within,  and  perceiving 
that  his  mistress  was  gazing  at  the  sky,  got  his  nose  in, 
when  Amabel,  recalled  to  present  interests,  resumed  her  bur- 
then. The  puppy  had  broken  in  upon  her  pleasant  thoughts. 
She  suddenly  woke  up  to  a  sickening  sense  of  fear,  like 
the  first  consciousness  of  danger  felt  by  one  who  has 
reached  the  worst  part  of  some  frightful  path,  from  which  there 
is  no  retiring.  A  horror  of  great  loneliness  fell  upon  her. 
She  looked  around.  She  was  terrified  by  the  extent  of  the 
unbroken  moor,  its  stillness  and  desolation.  She  had  never 
before  been  out  alone  upon  the  heath  at  so  late  an  hour.  She 
had  not  thought  of  this  when  she  left  home  in  the  broad  sun- 
shine, but  now  the  God  of  Day  was  hastening  to  the  west,  and 
she  was  only  half  across  the  heath  ;  it  would  be  dark  when  she 
reached  Churt.  She  feared  to  go  back  ;  and  she  dared  not  go 
on.  All  around  her  stretched  brown,  barren,  and  desolate, 
miles  of  unbroken  moorland ;  not  a  living  creature  was  in  sight, 
not  a  habitation,  nor  a  tree.  She  tried  to  recall  some  of  the 
thoughts  that  had  so  lately  occupied  her.  They  would  not 
come.  She  watched  the  sun  setting  behind  her  in  a  haze  of 
golden  light,  and  tried  to  fix  her  heart  upon  that  verse  of 
Isaiah,  "  The  glory  of  the  Lord  shall  be  thy  rear-ward." 

It  would  not  do.  The  fear  was  physical,  partly  induced, 
perhaps,  by  the  long  agitation  of  her  nerves.  It  was  a  horror 
of  loneliness :  such  a  horror  as  we  feel  in  dreams,  when  space 
seems  spreading  into  an  infinite  vastness.  The  horror  that  falls 
upon  children  in  the  dark,  which  is  not  so  much  a  terror  of  ob- 
scurity,  as  of  space  without  apparent  limit.  It  is  a  horror  of 
the  same  kind  as  that  physical  fear  with  ^Ynich  some  persons 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT.  325 

look  on  death,  a  dread  of  going  alone  into  the  Dark  Valley,  of 
passing  alone  through  ways  untried. 

She  was  upon  the  edge  of  a  wide,  still,  deep  pond,  nearly  a 
mile  in  circuit,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  a  fair  was 
to  be  held  in  a  few  days  upon  its  borders.  She  remembered 
some  horrible  stories  of  violence  and  wrong  that  had  been  late- 
ly current  in  the  village.  She  felt  the  insufficiency  of  her  dogs 
as  a  protection :  the  puppy  was  an  arrant  coward,  and  Barba 
was  too  old  and  too  small  to  be  of  any  use  to  her.  She  looked 
around  with  nervous  apprehension ;  nothing  stirred,  save  the 
shadows  that  the  clouds  cast  over  the  dreary  moorland. 

"  Oh !"  she  exclaimed,  crossing  herself  for  fear,  moved  by  an 
impulse  derived  from  her  Catholic  experience  in  her  old  child- 
ish days.  "  I  do  not  wonder  men  are  so  much  bolder  than  wo- 
men ; — the  worst  that  can  befall  them  is  to  be  murdered  by 
some  ruffian " 

As  she  said  so,  the  figure  of  a  man  started  up  before  her  on 
the  path — she  did  not  see  whence  he  came.  Her  first  feel- 
ing was  one  of  relief  at  seeing  a  human  being.  Then  the  blood 
rushed  back  from  her  heart,  and  she  sickened  with  terror. 

He  was  a  villarious-looking  wretch,  whose  shaggy  whiskers, 
swarthy  complexion,  and  red  neck-handkerchief,  betokened  some- 
thing of  the  gipsy.  He  eyed  the  dogs  keenly,  with  some  con- 
tempt, and  stared  Amabel  hard  in  the  face,  as  he  brushed  by. 
A  moment  after,  as  she  was  hurrying  on,  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
for  her  escape,  her  arms  were  seized  roughly  from  behind. 

"  Piero !  — At  him  !"  she  cried.  But  the  puppy  stood  still 
upon  the  path,  and  on  the  gipsy's  threatening  him  with  his 
foot  he  ran  away. 

"  Now,  my  mistress,  out  with  your  cash ;  that  dog  won't  let 
fly  at  me,"  said  the  footpad  with  a  laugh. 

"  Let  go  my  arms,  then,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  have  only  three 
shillings  ;  take  that  and  begone." 

"  You  have  got  to  give  me  all  these  gimcracks,"  he  said,  pull- 
ing at  her  watch-chain. 

"  Oh  !  not  that,"  she  cried.  "  Please — pray,  not  that.  I  have 
some  money  at  home  I  will " 

But  she  stopped.    Her  conscientiousness  suggested  that  this 


326  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

money  might  be  of  great  use  in  some  emergency.  Had.  she 
the  right  to  give  it  to  redeem  her  watch,  even  though  that  watch 
had  been  her  husband's  wedding  gift — though  a  little  supersti- 
tion connected  its  possession  with  her  hopes  for  the  future  ?  The 
ruffian  snatched  it  from  her  side.  She  moaned  as  if  a  part  of 
herself  were  torn  away. 

"  Now,  your  rings ;"  said  he. 

"  I  have  but  one,"  she  cried,  "  my  wedding  ring.  You  could 
not  take  a  woman's  wedding  ring  away !" 

"  Give  it  me — and  be  quick !" 

She  would  not  take  off  her  glove.  She  started  back,  and 
screamed  with  all  her  force.  She  had  a  vague  idea  that  deli- 
verance might  come  in  some  shape, — that  some  other  person 
might  be  lurking  by  the  pond.  The  fellow  cursed  her  for  her 
screams.  He  made  an  attempt  to  seize  her  hand  and  wrench 
the  ring  from  her  finger  ;  but,  failing  to  do  this,  he  struck  her 
over  the  head  with  a  thick  stick,  and  ran  away. 

Neither  he  nor  Amabel  had  observed  that,  at  the  beginning 
of  their  colloquy,  a  horseman  had  appeared  above  a  hilly  ridge, 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  them.  From  the  top  of  any 
rising  ground,  in  that  clear  atmosphere,  one  can  see  distinctly 
to  an  almost  incredible  distance. 

My  father  sat  upon  his  horse  at  the  top  of  the  brown  hillock, 
clear  against  the  sky,  like  a  statue  of  bronze.  He  had  a  small 
ship's  spy-glass  in  his  hand.  He  had  ridden  off  the  high  road 
to  take  one  last  long  look,  from  that  position,  at  the  Cottage. 
After  gazing  at  it  for  a  moment,  his  eye  fell,  on  the  foreground 
of  the  landscape,  on  the  two  human  figures  in  the  long  heather- 
less  green  track  which  served  for  a  road  across  the  common. 
Instantly,  with  a  speed  that  no  one  but  a  sailor  could  have  got 
out  of  his  pony,  he  came  galloping  down  hill  to  the  rescue. 
The  ruffian,  intent  upon  his  object,  and  secure  in  the  unbroken 
solitude  of  that  desolate  district,  did  not  perceive  his  approach, 
until  her  scream,  which  he  fancied  was  a  call  upon  this  person 
for  help.  He  struck  her,  hoping  her  deliverer  would  pause  and 
raise  her,  and  being  occupied  with  her,  would  have  no  time 
for  attempting  an  arrest.  He  was  mistaken.  A  desire  for  his 
capture  and  his  punishment — that  desire  for  pursuit  which  is 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   BISTORT.  827 

said  to  be  man's  strongest  natural  propensity — took  possession 
of  my  father. 

He  swerved  his  pony  to  the  left,  to  cut  off  the  retreat  of  the 
rascal.  He  came  up  with  him.  He  caught  at  him,  and  would 
have  captured  him  had  the  pony  been  less  hard  in  the  mouth. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  stop  it  at  the  right  moment.  It  made 
a  sudden  bound,  as  its  rider  tried  to  pull  it  in,  and  the  collar  of 
the  gipsy  slipped  through  my  father's  fingers.  He  could  spend 
no  more  time  in  trying  to  arrest  the  criminal.  He  saw  Amabel, 
slowly  rising  from  the  turf.  Perceiving  she  was  safe,  he  got 
off  his  pony  to  find  what  the  robber,  as  he  came  up  with  him, 
had  thrown  away.  The  dogs  ran  up ;  and  presently  he  saw 
Barba,  who  had  been  taught  to  fetch  and  carry,  dragging  some- 
thing through  the  heather.  He  found  a  watch  in  the  mouth 
of  the  little  animal.  The  case  had  started  open ;  and,  as  he  took 
it  in  his  hand,  the  inscription  met  his  eye,  "  Amabel  Warner, 
from  her  husband  Leonard  Warner" 

For  a  moment  he  was  perfectly  stunned.  His  first  clear 
thought  was  one  of  amazement  at  his  own  obtuseness.  Why, 
had  he  never  perceived  the  truth  before  ?  It  was  plain  to  him 
at  once.  And,  yet,  it  was  not  plain.  He  did  not  understand 
it,  though  memory  poured  in  upon  him,  like  a  flood,  words 
and  events 

Which  leave  upon  the  still  susceptive  sense 
A  message  undelivered,  till  the  mind 
Awakes  to  apprehensiveness  and  takes  it. 

He  went  up  to  her,  where  she  sat  by  the  road  side  feebly  sup- 
porting her  head  upon  her  hands.  Her  bonnet  was  off ;  and  her 
long  hair  unbound,  stirred  by  the  evening  wind,  waved  lightly 
on  her  shoulders. 

"  Are  you  much  hurt  ?"  said  he.  "  Were  you  much  fright- 
ened, Mrs.  Warner  ?" 

As  he  came  up  to  her  he  had  been  arranging  this  little  sen- 
tence. It  was  better  at  once  she  should  know  of  his  dis- 
covery. 

She  looked  up.  He  put  the  watch  into  her  lap,  and  repeated 
his  inquiry. 


328  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

"  I  feel  very  faint,"  said  she. 

"  Lean  on  me,"  said  my  father.  "  Lean  your  head  upon  my 
shoulder." 

He  sat  down  by  her.  She  hesitated,  and  did  not  take  advan- 
tage of  his  offer ;  but  her  Newfoundland  puppy  running  up  and 
putting  his  paws  upon  her  knees,  she  clasped  him  round  the 
neck  and  laid  her  head  on  his. 

"  When  did  you  find  it  out  ?"  she  said,  in  a  faint  voice,  with- 
out looking  at  my  father. 

"  When  I  picked  up  the  watch.  Believe  me — on  my  honor, 
Mrs.  Warner,  I  had  not  suspected  it  before." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  me  now  ?" 

"  I  think  that  neither  my  cousin  nor  I  have  ever  been  rightly 
informed  as  to  the  story.  Knowing  you  as  I  do,  I  feel  it  is 
impossible.  Amabel,  give  me  your  word.  It  is  impossible 
they  could  have  been  right  in  all  they  said  of  you  ?" 

"  You  thought  it  true  at  Foxley,"  said  Amabel.  And  she 
repeated  all  that  she  had  heard  him  say  upon  that  dreadful 
night  when  he  and  the  young  officer  of  artillery  arranged  the 
duel. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  heard  us  ?  Were  you  so  near  and  in 
distress  ?" 

"  I  am  not Oh !  it  shames  me  even  to  say  that  /  am 

not — I  am  not  what  they  said  of  me,"  she  cried,  hiding  her  face 
still  closer  than  before,  while  her  very  neck,  and  ears,  and  fin- 
gers flushed.  "  Mr.  Ord,  I  feel  fallen  very  low,  so  low  that  I 
am  constrained  to  fear  that  you  may  not  believe  me.  Matters 
of  fact  you  and  my  husband  may  yet,  I  trust,  investigate,  and 
prove  that  I  am  true ;  but,  whether  I  tell  a  lie  in  my  heart, 
laboring  to  impress  on  you  the  idea  of  a  purity  I  had  not,  the 
Lord  be  judge." 

"I  did  not  ask  of  you,"  said  he,  "such  solemn  words.  The 

woman  I  have  loved  could  not  be It  is  so  strangely 

difficult  to  reconcile  it  to  iny  mind  that  you  are  she." 

"  You  mean  you  have  always  been  so  sure  of  the  worthless- 
ness  of  Mrs.  Warner  ?" 

He  would  not  tell  a  falsehood  even  to  himself,  and  persuade 
himself  he  had  not  always  condemned  her ;  but  he  laid  his 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORT.  329 

hand  upon  the  little  hand  that  wore  the  wedding  ring,  and 
whispered,  "  But  not  now." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  repeating  a  thought  upon  which  she  loved 
to  ring  the  changes :  "  one  can  place  more  confidence  in  per- 
sons than  in  circumstances.  I  am  comforted  to  think  that  you 
can  trust  rne  now." 

He  thought  it  strange  that  in  her  most  excited  moments  she 
so  frequently  became  reflective  ;  not  knowing  that  this  is  often- 
times the  case  with  those  whose  range  of  reading  or  of  thought 
has  been  larger  than  that  of  their  experience.  To  such,  an 
abstract  truth,  held  fast  and  applied  in  any  present  strait,  brings 
often  a  strange  strength  and  comfort. 

"  You  see  the  cruel  mistake  I  fell  into,"  said  she.  "  I  per- 
suaded myself  you  must  have  recognised  me.  I  remembered 
you,  though  I  had  seen  you  but  once.  I  fancied  he  was  going 
to  forgive  me,  and  had  sent  you  here  to  bring  him  a  report  of 
me.  How  came  it  that  my  name,  which  is  so  uncommon,  did 
not  at  once  betray  me  ?" 

"  Which — Leonard  or  Amabel  ?" 

"  Both  !"  she  replied. 

"  I  asked  you  once,  you  remember,  if  you  were  related  to  tho 
Suffolk  Leonards,  and  you  answered  in  the  affirmative." 

"  That  was  true.  They  are  connexions  of  my  husband.  Old 
Mrs.  Warner  was  a  Leonard." 

"  As  to  your  Christian  name — when  he  spoke  of  you  to  me, 
he  called  you  Belle  or  Bella." 

"  True — true !"  she  interrupted  ;  "  Belle  was  always  the  name 
he  called  me.  He  never  called  me  Amabel ;  and  for  that  reason 
I  cannot  bear  that  any  one  but  he  should  call  me  Belle.  I 
have  no  pet  name  now." 

"  I  took  it  for  granted  that  Belle  stood  for  Isabella,"  said  my 
father.  "  I  thought  she  was  a  foreigner — but  you  are  English. 
I  had  formed  such  a  different  idea  of  her  ;  I  could  not  associate 
her  with  you." 

She  rose  up  quietly,  and  turned  towards  home.  He  slipped 
one  arm  through  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  while,  with  the  other, 
he  supported  her.  She  was  too  weak  to  walk  alone. 

Many  were  the  pauses  in  their  walk,  and  many  a  mouthful 


330  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

of  gntss  the  pony  cropped  by  die  wayside,  as  she  told  him  her 
story.  When  she  came  to  speak  of  the  abduction  of  Felix 
G  oiscard  he  broke  in,  eager  to  exonerate  Captain  Warner. 
She  heard  all  he  could  tell  her  of  the  mistake  made  at  Valetta 
with  a  piteous  smile.  "  It  matters  little  now,"  said  she ;"  I  trust 
characters  rather  than  circumstances.  I  have  long  been  sure 
that  either  Captain  Warner  was  not  concerned  in  the  affair,  or 
that  he  had  sufficient  reason  for  his  conduct.  But  you  see," 
she  added,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  grief,  "you  see  how  ready  I 
was  once,  I — his  wife— to  mistrust  him  and  to  wrong  him !" 

When  aha  spoke  of  old  Mrs.  Warner,  and  of  the  sorrows  of 
her  early  married  life,  Theodosius  was  unmeasured  in  his  expres- 
sions of  indignation. 

"You  conld  not  hare  been  subject  to  her.  You  could  not 
hare  fired  with  her.  She  is  enough  to  exhaust  the  patience  of 


"  Let  us  hope  not,"  she  answered.  u  She  is  dead.  I  read 
her  death  in  last  week's  paper." 

•*BuV  said  he,  when  she  had  done,  "why  let  Warner 
believe  the  things  he  does  of  yon  ?  I  do  not  see  you  were  to 
blame  at  all ;  but,  at  any  rate,  it  is  neither,  for  his  honor  nor  for 
yours,  that  things  should  stand  as  they  are.1* 

u  But  I  wrote  to  him — I  sent  him  an  explanation,"  she  cried, 
with  a  bitterness  that  showed  the  deepest  of  her  griefs  was 
now  disclosed,  "  and  he  took  no  notice  of  my  letter." 

•  Shall  I  writer  said  Tfaeodosins. 

"Would  it  be  of  any  use  P 

"  I  do  not  know.  If  I  could  see  him,  a  few  words  might  set 
him  right.  I  would  appeal  to  his  affectionate  heart,  and  to  his 
manly  generosity.  I  should  not  fear.  He  is  a  man  peculiarly 
susceptible  to  eloquence,  because  that  excite*  the  feelings  ;  but 
I  never  knew  him  much  affected  by  a  letter.  The  necessity  of 
picking  his  way  along  a  written  sheet,  appears  to  cool  his  blood." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  said  Amabel ;  "  I  hare  noticed  that 
often,  «IMJ  I  have  thought  it  very  strange.  Impressions  deepen 
with  me,  long  after  personal  influence  has  been  withdrawn. 
It  is  so  in  this  instance.  If  he  could  look  into  my  heart ! 
Ton  are  convinced,  are  you  not,  that  I  do  truly  love  him  T 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

-  Alas,  yes !"  lie  said.  He  had  already  felt  it  to  be  true,  and 
in  that  brief  -  alas  !"  betrayed  his  love.  He  felt  her  arm  drawn 
quickly  from  his  own. 

~  Perhaps,"  she  said,  as  she  withdrew  a  little  from  his  side, 
"  perhaps  you  don't  believe  me.  You  may  think  I  am  light- 
minded.  I  cannot — it  is  not  in  my  nature  to  hare  no  human 
interests.  I  am  not  one  of  those  calm  superior  women  who 
lire  in  an  atmosphere  above  our  earth.  This  one  great  grief 
has  not  yet  blighted  all  the  pretty  flowers  that  bloom  along  my 
path.  If  I  again  were  Leonard's  wife,  I  should  have  a  thousand 
happinesses  at  once.  I  should  not  be  afraid  of  loving  you  and 
Horace.  Now  I  am  struggling  to  appear  what  I  am  not,  cold 
and  indifferent,  when  so  many  are  kind  to  me," 

Nothing  she  could  have  said  would  have  so  thoroughly  con- 
vinced him  of  her  innocence,  and  of  the  necessity  of  conquering 
his  own  feelings,  as  this  simple  expression  of  regard  for  her 
two  lovers. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  path. 

"  I  have  no  need  to  tell  you  that  I  have  given  up  my  dearest 
hopes — that  the  wife  of  my  cousin  is  sacred  in  my  eyes." 

In  the  expression  of  her  face  he  read  a  calm  of  course.  She 
expected  every  man  to  do  his  duty.  That  Theodosius  «hoqld 
do  his  was  no  matter  of  surprise.  And  he,  while  nattered  in 
one  sense  by  her  innocent  confidence  in  his  integrity,  felt 
pained  that  she  did  not  understand  that  he  was  suffering. 
Alas !  how  seldom,  when  we  make  a  strong  effort  to  do  right, 
have  we  {he  comfort  of  knowing  that  any  eyes  but  those  of 
angels  watch  the  struggle. 

He  went  on. 

"  Will  you  hear  me  assure  you,  before  God,  that  the  dearest 
wish  I  now  dare  to  entertain  is,  that  I  may  be  instrumental  in 
restoring  you  to  your  husband  !  Will  you  depend  on  me  I 
For  the  present  I  will  go  away,  because  the  solemn  TOW  that  I 
now  take  binds  me  to  protect  you.  I  begin  by  protecting  you 
from  myself,  I  shall  plunge  into  new  interests  in  London.  I 
will  silence  the  voice  of  my  own  heart,  by  making  books :  as 
hundreds  have  done  before,  and  thousands  will  do  yet.  When 

am  calm,  I  shall  come  back.    Meanwhile,  promise  me  that, 


382  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

should  anything  happen  to  interrupt  your  present  life — should 
any  case  arise  in  which  you  stand  in  need  of  friendship  or 
protection,  you  will  send  for  me.  Remember,  I  am  Warner's 
nearest  friend — his  friend  and  his  cousin." 

"  And  here  we  part,"  he  said,  finding  they  had  reached  the 
cottage  gate.  "  But,  Mrs.  Warner ," 

"  Call  me  Mrs.  Leonard,"  she  said,  "  as  hitherto." 

"  I  think  that  in  giving  up  your  married  name,  a  great  mis- 
take was  committed." 

"  So  my  step-father  told  me  at  the  time.  But  I  was  so 
ignorant  of  things  three  years  ago,  and  so  very  anxious  to 
show  my  readiness  to  obey  him" 

"  Promise  me,"  said  my  father,  taking  her  hands,  and  gazing 
earnestly  by  the  pale  light  of  a  young  moon  into  her  face, 
"promise  me  to  consider  me  your  friend  and  counsellor. 
Promise  to  send  for  me  if  you  are  in  any  trouble.  Promise  to 
think  of  me  sometimes." 

With  that  he  opened  the  heavy  gate.  She  went  through, 
thinking  he  was  about  to  follow  her,  but  it  swung  to  behind 
her.  Before  she  could  open  it,  to  bid  him  a  kind  farewell,  to 
tell  him  how  entirely  she  trusted  him,  he  had  mounted  the 
pony. 

He  saw  her  wave  him  the  farewell  he  dared  not  trust  himself 
to  hear  her  speak.  And  as  he  rode  away  in  haste,  without 
reply,  she  was  half  disposed  to  think  she  had  offended  him. 
A  troubled  feeling  remained  after  this  interview,  a  fear  lest  he 
must  certainly  despise  her.  As  often  as  it  rose,  she  put  it 
down  by  prayer  and  by  reflection.  It  was  her  rule  never  to 
indulge  a  painful  fancy ;  she  wanted  all  her  strength  to  expend 
on  actual  cares. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Elle  se  vengea  de  sa  destm£e,  qui  lui  refusait  le  bunheur  pour  elle-meme,  en  at  con 
tumant  pourle  bonheur  des  autres. — LAMARTI.NE  of  Mad.  Roland. 

So,  Theodosius  Ord  went  up  to  the  great  metropolis.     Sucked 
into  the  Maelstrom,  he  whirled  and  tossed  amongst  his  fellow 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  833 

straws.  He  took  a  dingy  lodging  in  a  close  and  murky  street, 
and  knew  something  of  the  ordeal  of  hot  ploughshares,  as  day 
after  day  he  trod  the  burning  summer  pavement  searching  for 
a  publisher.  Had  he  been  a  necessitous  adventurer,  dependent 
on  literature  as  a  profession,  his  portfolio  might  have  contained 
poems  a  thousand-fold  better  than  any  that  were  there,  and 
yet  have  lain  in  manuscript  for  ever.  But  he  had  private 
means,  and  was  willing  to  advance  a  hundred  pounds  upon  the 
risk  of  publication,  so  that  the  verses  got  at  last  set  up  in  type, 
and  made  their  appearance  in  the  world  of  letters.  There  was 
vast  pleasure  to  my  father  in  seeing  his  verses  through  the 
press,  in  correcting  the  proof-sheets,  and  in  distributing  with 
lavish  hand,  copies  of  the  work  with  inscriptions  "  from  the 
author." 

There  is,  in  every  case,  a  little  circle  in  which  the  first  work 
of  a  new  author  is  fondled  at  its  birth,  and  where  its  reception 
is  by  no  means  an  earnest  of  the  treatment  it  will  meet,  when, 
poor  little  vessel  of  earth,  it  takes  its  chance  amongst  the  iron 
pots  made  to  outlast  the  century.  Alas !  after  a  year  has 
passed,  of  such  ventures  as  my  father's  how  rarely  there  remains 
even  a  shred ! 

A  vast  deal  has  been  shrieked,  and  said,  and  sung,  about  the 
cruelties  of  critics ;  strictures  which,  in  my  opinion  (considering 
what  harsh  judgments  we,  private  critics,  in  our  private  life,  pass 
daily  on  each  other),  are  extremely  undeserved. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  no  Mr.  Bludyer  mangled  with 
savage  ruthlessness  my  father's  little  volume  ;  that  no  shabby 
little  paper,  of  the  baser  sort,  having  been  overlooked  by  the 
publisher,  hired  the  work,  and  revenged  itself  upon  its  author ; 
but  when  we  think  of  the  mass  of  stupidity  and  trash  shovelled 
in  weekly  on  the  critic  by  profession,  to  be  examined  without 
loss  of  time,  and  set  up  on  the  shelf  to  which  his  judgment 
may  assign  it,  I  think  we  shall  acknowledge  that  the  real 
worker  in  the  hive  stings  oftentimes  less  severely  than  the 
drones — that  criticisms  by  pens  that  write  for  bread  are  kinder 
than  those  pronounced  by  the  tongues  of  the  dilettanti. 

So  my  father  rolled  out  of  blankets  and  warm  feathers 
into  his  plunge  bath,  being  suffered  to  indulge  himself  in  the 


334  AMABEL;  A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

hope  that  his  poems  were  succeeding,  until  he  came  to  inquire 
— if  they  sold. 

He  had  had  the  presentation  copy  he  designed  for  Amabel 
bound  in  green  morocco ;  and  though,  as  he  walked  down  with 
it  to  the  Spread  Eagle,  in  Gracechurch  street,  he  repeated,  smil- 
ing to  himself, — 

"  Ha !  some  one  has  robbed  me  "    "  I  pity  your  grief." 
"  Of  my  manuscript  veises  !"    '*  I  pity  the  thief !'' 

he  suffered  unusual  anxieties  until  he  heard  of  its  arrival. 

She  wrote  at  once  to  acknowledge  it.  Her  letter  was  very 
kind,  gentle,  and  full  of  interest  in  his  success.  She  said  that 
everything  was  going  on  as  usual  at  Sandrock.  She  did  not 
say  that  her  spirits  and  her  health  began  to  fail.  That  there 
were  moments  when  life  itself  seemed  to  hang  upon  the  chance 
of  rest  or  change ;  that  Olivia  was  giving  her  inconceivable 
anxiety  ;  and  that  of  late,  in  her  brief  moments  of  repose,  when 
her  soul  strayed  wearily  into  the  "  land  of  vision,"  it  sought  in 
preference  the  place  of  tombs.  She  would  fancy  herself  dead — 
fancy  her  troubles  over — her  soul  at  rest,  and  Leonard  happy — 
the  stain  her  memory  left  behind  upon  his  life,  washed  from 
the  world's  sight  by  his  marriage  with  another. 

Autumn  had  come — coal  smoke,  and  the  first  fog.  The 
Junior  United  Service  Club  had  not  then  been  established,  and 
my  father  found  himself  horribly  lonely  in  his  lodgings.  He 
wrote  upon  the  subject  to  Amabel.  He  quoted  to  her  Lord 
Byron's  famous  passage  about  the  solitude  of  a  crowd.  She 
replied,  by  recommending  him  to  walk  out  into  the  streets,  and 
seize  on  the  first  interest  that  came  to  hand.  "  Follow  it  up," 
said  she,  "  and  it  will  lead  you,  before  you  are  aware,  into  a 
tangled  mass  of  human  interests,  in  the  midst  of  which  your 
.  only  difficulty  will  be  to  hold  on  steadily  to  the  one  that  first 
attracted  you.  I  am  a  good  deal  of  Diderot's  opinion,  that 
only  the  wicked  can  be  solitary.  The  controversy  between  the 
Encyclopaedia  and  Jean  Jacques,  upon  the  subject,  was  a 
favorite  theme  with  my  poor  friend,  Dr.  Glascock,  who  always 
asserted,  with  Rousseau,  that  the  solitary,  by  choice,  are  com- 
monly humane  and  benevolent,  since  whoever  suffices  for 
himself,  has  no  disposition  to  hurt  another.  For  his  own  part, 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  335 

he  used  to  say,  lie  preferred  living  separated  from  tlie  wicked, 
to  living  amongst  them  and  hating  them.  In  all  of  which 
arguments,  you  will  perceive,  that  each  party  fired  wide  of  tho 
truths  held  by  the  other.  And  now  I  speak  of  Dr.  Glascock — 
let  me  say  that  which  my  courage  has  failed  me  to  say 
hitherto :  would  you  be  willing  to  write  to  him,  and  try  to  get 
from  him  some  account  of  my  early  life  in  Malta  ?  Much  of 
what  afterwards  happened  hinges  upon  that  part  of  my  story : 
and  when  I  am  permitted  to  exculpate  myself  to  my  husband, 
I  should  like  him  to  have  every  word  I  say  confirmed  and  cor- 
roborated." 

Upon  that  hint  my  father  wrote  to  Malta,  and  obtained, 
though  not  till  some  months  had  elapsed,  that  Narrative,  by 
Dr.  Glascock,  which  I  have  used  so  freely  in  the  first  part  of 
this  volume.  He  did  not,  however,  act  on  her  advice,  in 
regard  to  the  living  interests  around  him.  His  soul  was 
animated  with  poetical  ambition,  and  in  that  day  (amongst  his 
class  of  poets)  poetiy  was  by  no  means  educed  "  out  of  emo- 
tion excited  by  action  recollected  in  tranquillity,"  but  from 
visions  evoked  out  of  the  "vasty  deep,"  disdaining  all  con- 
nexion with  the  red  clay  of  humanity,  having  as  little  as 
possible  to  do  with  what  was  real.  So  my  father,  not  knowing 
that  in  the  low  and  swampy  places  of  the  earth  the  poet  will 
find  most  luxuriance,  gave  no  heed  to  her  advice,  as  he  pon- 
dered his  new  poem. 

It  was  to  be  an  Eastern  tale — the  East  being  a  sort  of  poet's 
storehouse  of  romance,  after  the  publication  of  Lalla  Rookh, 
the  Corsair,  and  Giaour.  To  be  sure,  my  father  knew  as  little 
of  the  East  as  I  know  of  the  manners,  customs,  habits  of 
thought,  and  social  prejudices  of  the  inhabitants  of  Dahomey ; 
but  that  was  rather  an  advantage  than  otherwise — the  fanciful, 
not  the  vrai-semblable,  being  all  that  was  necessary.  Amongst 
the  multitude  of  poetasters  who  wrote  upon  the  East,  few  gave 
to  the  subject  any  preparatory  st^udy.  My  father  laid  in  a 
stock  of  bulbuls  and  of  yataghans ;  called  his  heroine  Zai'da ; 
and  having  composed  the  first  canto  of  his  work,  bethought 
himself  of  applying  to  his  publisher.  He  found  one  night,  on 
returning  to  his  lodgings,  the  following  communication  : — 


336  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

DEAB  Sia, 

We  beg  to  thank  you  for  your  very  obliging  offer  of  your  new 
volume  of  poems.  The  issue  of  the  publication  of  the  "  Lazy  Longings" 
is,  however,  so  little  encouraging,  and  we  so  sincerely  regret  the  unsa- 
tisfactory result  to  yourself,  that  we  have  not  courage  to  undertake 
another  book  in  these  unfavorable  times,  on  the  same  terms,  from  the 
same  author.  Accept  our  best  thanks,  nevertheless,  for  the  courtesy 
which  led  you  to  propose  it  to  us.  We  trust  in  other  hands  you  may 
be  more  fortunate. 

Your  obedient  Servants 

BACOX   AND   BUNGAY. 

T.  Ord,  Esq. 

Inclosed  was  the  account.  Only  thirty-eight  copies  had 
been  sold  out  of  five  hundred,  and  of  twenty-six  of  these  he 
himself  had  been  the  purchaser.  He  took  out  his  newspapers, 
re-studied  the  verdict  of  his  critics,  and  was  convinced  that  they 
had  not  taken  so  Unfavorable  a  view  of  his  work  as  the  man 
of  business.  But,  after  all,  the  business  brought  him  to  his 
senses ;  he  could  not  afford  to  lose  for  Za'ida's  sake  another 
hundred  guineas.  He  took  up  the  despised  "  Longings,"  but 
ftmnd  himself  actually  sick  of  his  own  poems. 

"  No  man,  I  presume,"  said  he,  "  can  read  any  work  of  pro- 
fane literature,  day  after  day,  and  not  get  bored  by  it." 

He  forgot  Shakspeare  ;  and  the  world,  as  yet,  knew  nothing 
of  its  Thackeray. 

He  put  on  his  dressing-gown ;  he  treated  with  a  sad  and 
subdued  kindness  the  maid  of  all  work  who  brought  him  up  his 
tea,  and  who  habitually  put  him  out  of  temper  by  her  womanly 
propensity  for  setting  to  rights  his  books  and  papers,  or  rather, 
as  he  called  it,  " for  putting  things  to  wrongs"  He  poured  all 
the  tea  into  one  large  basin ;  set  it  to  cool  upon  the  fireplace ; 
put  his  feet  upon  the  fender ;  poked  a  black  coal  with  his  foot ; 
and,  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  sat  in  moody  medi- 
tation. 

And  here,  I  remember,  I  have  never  yet  described  him. 

He  belonged  to  a  tall  and  light-haired  race.  He  himself  was 
too  tall,  he  used  to  say,  for  a  naval  man.  His  intimates  in  after 
years  called  him  the  Viking ;  and,  indeed,  there  is  a  tradition 
that  our  family  has  descended  from  some  Sweyn  or  Friolthulf, 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  33*1 

who  led  a  colony  of  his  countrymen  to  the  Northumbrian  shore. 
His  hair  was  of  a  rare  golden  hue,  very  thick  and  closely  curled. 
It  lay  in  heavy  masses,  piled  up  over  his  head,  and  shading  his 
brow  and  temples.  His  eyes  were  of  a  peculiar,  soft,  golden- 
streaked  hazel,  with  lashes  much  darker  than  his  hair.  These 
eyes  and  his  chin  were  the  two  handsome  features  of  his'face ; 
the  latter  was  dimpled  d  la  Napolienne.  But  his  chief  charm 
was  his  voice,  clear,  rich,  and  full.  Above  the  wildest  storm 
he  could  hail  the  main-top  without  a  trumpet ;  yet  it  was  dis- 
tinct, ringing,  soft,  and  manageable  in  its  lowest  tones. 

As  he  sat  before  his  fire,  he  heard  a  sudden  loud  knocking 
and  ringing.  Persons  were  heard  coming  up  the  staircase.  A 
voice,  in  rather  a  provoked  tone,  said,  "  That  will  do — that  will 
do,  my  good  girl.  I  don't  want  your  assistance ;  I  can  do  very 
well." 

The  door  of  the  room  burst  open,  and  the  maid  of  all  work 
entered,  leading  Horace  Vane.  "  There,  sir — there.  Sit  down. 
Here's  a  chair,"  said  she,  almost  thrusting  him  into  it. 

u  What  brings  you  here,  old  fellow  ?"  cried  my  father. 

"  She  sent  me,"  replied  Horace.  "  She  wants  to  see  you  at 
once.  She  says  you  have  promised  to  be  her  friend,  and  you 
and  I  are  to  manage  for  her.  You  and  /,  Theodosius." 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  said  my  father,  "  make  haste  and 
tell  me." 

"  Bevis  has  eloped  with  Miss  Olivia." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  cried  my  father.  "  I  was  afraid  it  was  some- 
thing a  great  deal  worse." 

"  There  is  something  worse  behind,"  said  Horace.  "  Captain 
Talbot  is  given  over ;  on  hearing  the  news  he  had  another 
paralytic  stroke.  I  cannot  tell  what  she  will  do.  Her  health  is 
failing — and  to  have  all  that  family  thrown  upon  her  hands — " 

"  Her  health  !     Has  she  been  ill  ?" 

"  Not  ill,  but  ailing.  As  she  says,  one  would  compound  for 
a  dangerous  fever  once  a  year,  if  it  could  buy  off  the  dreadful 
feeling  of  being  just  not  equal  to  the  claims  of  every  day. 
Olivia's  behavior  has  told  terribly  upon  her." 

"  He  will  marry  her  of  course,"  said  my  father,  after  a  pause. 
M  He  could  have  found  no  attraction  but  her  property." 

15 


338  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   BISTORT. 

"Amabel,  however,  has  her  doubts  about  the  marriage. 
That  is  exactly  what  she  wants  of  you  and  me.  Olivia  is  twenty, 
and  her  four  thousand  pounds  next  year  will  be  quite  in  her 

own  power.  He  may  want  to  get  it  from  her,  and  then , 

at  any  rate,  Amabel  does  not  trust  him,  and  she  wants  us  both 
either  to  get  her  back  or  to  see  them  married  properly." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  them  ?  Where  did  they  go  ?" 
exclaimed  my  father. 

"  Bevis  has  been  in  the  habit,  since  you  left,  of  constantly 
spending  his  nights  out  in  the  market  town.  I  did  not  mind 
it  much  ;  for,  had  he  been  at  home,  he  would  probably  have  been 
playing  his  buffoon  tricks  to  an  admiring  audience  of  clowns  at 
Caesar's  alehouse.  The  evenings  he  was  over  there  I  spent  with 
Amabel,  and  was  engaged  during  the  day  in  training,  for  her 
use,  a  forest  pony.  I  was,  formerly,  considered  a  good  horse- 
man, and  I  find  I  can  still  ride,  accompanied  by  a  groom.  Ama- 
bel has  not  been  able  to  walk  much.  She  is  pale,  languid, 
easily  fatigued,  and  I  fancied  if  I  could  train  a  gentle  pony  for 
her  use — > — " 

"  She  might  accompany  you  ?" 

"  Last  night,"  continued  Horace,  "  Bevis  did  not  come  home. 
1  thought  little  of  his  absence  till  I  received  a  message  from 
Amabel  this  morning,  begging  me  to  come  to  her  at  once,  and 
send  off  some  one  for  the  doctor.  I  found  the  clergyman 
already  there.  The  captain  was  lying  speechless,  having  been 
too  suddenly  informed  of  the  elopement.  Olivia  appeared  to 
have  been  gone  since  daybreak,  leaving  a  rather  impertinent 
note  behind,  which  was  not  shown  me.  Amabel  sent  me  off 
at  once  for  you.  I  took  the  cross-roads  to  Guilford,  having  got 
information  which  led  me  to  suppose  I  was  in  the  track  of 
them.  Bevis  drove  her  in  a  gig  from  the  Bush  Inn,  and  they 
had  some  hours'  start  of  me.  At  Guilford  they  had  hired  a 
post-chaise.  Just  as  I  got  there  the  coach  drove  up.  I  got 
upon  the  top,  leaving  the  groom  to  take  back  the  horses.  We 
travelled  faster  than  they.  By  the  help  of  a  sharp  boy,  whom 
I  found  upon  the  coach,  I  made  inquiries.  We  came  up  with 
them  at  Kingston,  where  they  had  gone  into  the  inn  to  dine, 
and  had  ordered  a  wedding-cake  from  the  confectioner.  Know- 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  339 

ing  Miss  Olivia's  taste  for  eating,  I  fancy  they  will  be  detained. 
If  you  come  on  at  once  we  may  probably  intercept  them. 
They  are  taking  no  precautions  of  any  kind." 

"  Come  on  then,"  said  my  father.     "  How  shall  we  go  ?" 

"Better  ride." 

Horses  were  soon  procured.  After  proceeding  with  some 
caution  till  they  left  behind  the  lights  of  London,  they  crossed 
Putney  bridge,  passed  the  house  which  was  once  the  head-quart- 
ers of  the  great  Oliver,  and  began  to  quicken  their  speed. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other — they  kept  the  great  pace 

Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  their  place. 

They  found  themselves  at  length  on  open  ground,  completely 
out  of  the  dense  London  atmosphere — 

"  The  shining  lamps  in  Jove's  high  house  were  lit." 

"  We  are  on  Wimbledon  Common,"  said  my  father. 
"  Hark  !"  replied  Horace.     "  I  hear  something  advancing  in 
the  distance.     Pull  up  your  horse.     I  think  it  is  the  carriage." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"Every  disease  has  its -remedy  except  for  folly;  that  alone  is  incurable."  The 
Prophet,  on  whom  be  peace,  lia*  also  said,  "  Folly  is  the  commonest  portion  of  man- 
kind." TURKISH  BOOK. 

HORACE  was  right.  There  was  a  carriage  on  the  road,  but 
whether  it  contained  the  runaways,  the  eyes  of  my  father 
could  not  determine.  Horace  proposed  to  ride  on  to  Kingston, 
and  see  whether  the  fugitives  had  left  there. 

"  That  will  never  do,"  said  my  father.  "  We  passed  the 
place  a  mile  from  here,  where  the  road  becomes  two  branches, 
and  it  will  be  impossible,  in  the  dark,  to  guess  whether  they 
have  taken  the  one  that  runs  through  Putney  or  that  by  the 
Elephant  and  Castle.  Whatever  we  v'o,  do  not  let  us  lose  sight 
of  the  carriage." 


340  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

They  had  turned  their  horses  as  it  passed,  and  were  following 
it  at  a  smart  trot.  Suddenly  all  doubt  was  removed  by  a  sharp 
shriek.  "  It  is  they !"  exclaimed  Horace.  "  What  can  he  be 
doing  to  her !  It  is  the  voice  of  Olivia  !" 

They  spurred  on,  but  the  nearer  they  approached  the  louder 
and  more  piercing  grew  the  shrieks.  Just  as  they  got  up 
abreast  of  the  carriage,  Bevis,  who  was  not  without  a  certain 
kind  of  pluck,  let  down  the  glass,  and  thrust  his  head  out  of  the 
window.  t 

"  I  have  no  money  with  me  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  but  I  have  pis- 
tols, and  am  prepared  to  use  them." 

My  father  pulled  up.  "  By  George !"  he  cried  to  Horace, 
"  they  have  taken  us  for  highwaymen." 

Once  more  they  headed  the  postillion. 

"  Stop,  man  !"  cried  my  father  to  the  post-boy.  "  Stop,  if  you 
have  any  sense  left,  and  tell  those  fools  inside  that  we  have  no 
intention  of  harming  them." 

Sure  that  after  such  galloping  they  would  find  it  necessary 
to  rest  at  the  next  post-house,  the  horsemen  then  made  the  best 
of  their  way  in  advance  of  the  carriage ;  and,  alighting  on  the 
outskirts  of  Putney,  at  a  neat  little  roadside  tavern,  asked  for 
the  best  parlor,  and  summoned  the  landlady.  She  came  up  to 
them  at  once,  a  dapper  chipper  little  woman,  with  a  very  pretty 
face,  and  a  certain  rotundity  of  figure.  My  father,  who  was 
innocent  of  all  diplomacy,  and  who  in  any  difficulty  trusted 
always  to  a  free,  frank  explanation  of  the  circumstances  to  bear 
him  through,  took  her  aside  and  told  her  the  whole  story.  Just 
as  he  had  finished,  they  heard  the  post-chaise  that  contained 
the  frightened  travellers  driving  up  to  the  inn  door. 

"  Now,  my  dear  good  woman,"  said  my  father,  hearing  Bevis 
calling  out  at  the  bar  below  for  stiff  brandy  and  water,  "  be  dis- 
creet. Go  down  and  ask  the  lady  up.  We  are  her  best  friends 
— we  mean  well  by  her.  We  do  not  even  mean  to  separate 
her  from  her  lover.  Here  is  my  card.  You  see  I  am  a  lieute- 
nant of  the  navy.  This  young  gentleman  is  the  son  of  one  of 
our  great  merchants  in  India.  We  had  rather  see  her  without 
the  man  who  is  with  her.  And  we  wish  you  to  stay  in  the  room." 

Thus  directed,  the  landlady  went  down  to  the  front  door,  and 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  341 

found  Olivia  protesting  that  she  would  go  no  further  on  that 
road  ;  that  it  was  quite  dark ;  that  she  had  been  frightened  to 
death  by  robbers ;  and  she  would  only  travel  by  day. 

"  Better  come  up  and  rest,  Miss,"  said  the  landlady. 

At  the  word  Afiss,  Olivia  tossed  her  head.  "  I  must  consult 
my  husband,"  she  replied. 

But  the  consulting  was  only  a  farce,  for  a  moment  after,  in 
spite  of  all  he  could  say  to  dissuade  her,  she  got  out,  and 
leaving  him  to  dismiss  the  chaise,  followed  the  landlady. 

The  door  of  the  Small  .parlor  opened,  and  she  stood  face  to 
face  with  my  father  and  Horace  Yane. 

Olivia's  shrewdness  seldom  deserted  her.  She  stepped  back, 
crying  to  the  landlady,  "  Why  do  you  harbor  such  people  ? 
They  are  robbers !  They  are  robbers !" 

"  You  know  better  than  that,  Miss  Talbot,"  said  my  father. 
"  I  am  sent  to  you  by  your  family." 

But  Olivia  began  again  to  scream  and  call  on  Bevis.  "  My 
husband !  My  husband !" 

My  father  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  begged  her  to  be  quiet, 
but  she  struggled  so  vehemently,  that  he  let  her  go.  By  this 
time  up  came  Bevis,  armed  with  Dutch  courage,  with  the 
brandy  and  water  glass  still  in  his  hand. 

"  We  are  here  by  the  authority  of  her  sister,  sir,  and  Captain 
Talbot,"  said  my  father.  "  Miss  Olivia,  do  you  know  your 
father  is  dying  ?  You  have  killed  your  father." 

"  Then  he  ought  not  to  have  set  her  over  me,"  said  Olivia. 
"  A  pretty  tiring,  indeed,  for  her  to  talk  about  elopements ;  when 
her  husband  caught  her  one  night  in  the  act  of  running  off  with 
a  French  officer." 

"  You  know,  Olivia,  that  that  is  false,"  cried  the  two  friends 
of  Amabel  at  once.  My  father,  because  he  knew  the  truth  ; 
Horace,  because  he  felt  such  a  deed  on  her  part  was  impossible. 

"I  am  the  nearest  friend  and  relative  of  Captain  Warner," 
cried  my  father,  "  and  know  all  about  that  affair.  You  know 
well,  or  ought  to  know,  Miss  Talbot,  that  she  was  simply  set- 
ting off  to  join  her  husband." 

"  I  don't  see,  then,  why  he  turned  her  off,"  said  Olivia,  with 
a  quiet  sneer. 


342  AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY. 

My  father  was  very  angry ;  the  more  so  because  this  fool  of 
a  girl  had  the  best  of  the  argument. 

In  his  narrative  he  breaks  out  at  this  point,  as  was  too  much 
his  wont,  into  reflections. 

"  I  had  not  learned,"  says  he,  "  the  lesson  Amabel  was 
always  learning. 

" '  The  deed  once  done,  no  power  can  abrogate,'  is  old  Pindar's 
expression  of  a  truth,  which,  though  by  no  means  generally 
admitted  now,  seems  to  have  been  pretty  well  settled  in  the 
public  mind  in  his  time. 

"  '  That  our  works  do  follow  us,' — not  merely  into  the  next 
world,  but  throughout  our  stay  in  the  present.  That  God 
himself  will  not  check  the  working  of  His  laws,  and  stand 
between  a  man  and  the  natural  consequences  of  his  own  mis- 
behavior. That  even  repentance  will  not  lay  the  evil  spirits 
of  our  evil  actions.  From  David's  time  to  ours,  each  wrong 
has  had  its  consequences.  The  transgressor  may,  struggling 
against  the  evil  in  which  he  has  involved  himself,  come  out  of 
the  conflict  a  better  man  than  he  went  in ;  but  he  will  never 
be  the  same  man  that  he  would  have  been,  but  for  his  fault. 
He  will  never  be  suffered  to  pluck  out  the  thorn  he  stuck  into 
his  own  pillow. 

"  At  this  time,"  continues  my  father,  "  I  did  not  understand 
this  in  the  least.  I  thought  it  just,  that  when  a  man  was  sorry 
for  a  fault,  he  should  be  relieved  from  his  liabilities.  I  forgot 
that,  though  with  care  and  pains  a  crew  may  plug  a  shot-hole, 
you  can  never  make  the  ship's  hull  sound,  till  she  has  been 
hauled  into  dock  again.  Nor  did  I  see  that  it  was  just  that,  when 
Amabel  had  committed  a  little  fault,  she  should  have  the  credit 
of  a  great  one, — that  having  been  a  careless  wife,  she  should  be 
supposed  unfaithful.  As  if  we  could  estimate  the  mischief  done 
to  others  by  each  fault,  and  portion  out  its  fitting  retribution." 

"  It  is  an  astonishment  to  me,  Miss  Olivia,"  said  m.y  father, 
frank  in  his  anger,  "  that  you,  who  certainly  would  not  have 
troubled  yourself,  from  generous  motives,  to  keep  sacred  the 
secrets  and  the  reputation  of  your  sister,  should  not  long  ago 
have  shouted,  on  the  housetops  of  your  neighborhood,  your 
version  of  the  separation." 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  343 

"  That  is  another  instance,"  cried  Olivia,  "  of  her  falsehood 
and  injustice.  She  told  me  once  that  if  I  did  not  hold  my 
tongue  upon  that  subject — if  I  succeeded  in  making  the  public 
think  as  bad  of  her  as  I  do — I  might  be  sure  the  mischief 
would  recoil  upon  myself,  for  that  no  one  then  would  wish  to 
marry  me.  You  see  now  what  an  untruth  she  told,"  continued 
Olivia,  triumphantly,  "  for  Bevis  found  it  out,  and  yet  is  con- 
tent to  have  me." 

"  You  need  not  flatter  yourself,  Mr.  Bevis,"  cried  my  father, 
"  that  you  have  shown  magnanimity  in  proposing  to  marry  the 
sister  of  such  a  woman — a  woman  who  is  a  lady,  and  a  wife 
of  whom  the  proudest  might  be  proud.  I  am  not  going  to 
insult  her,  by  hinting  that  her  behavior  need  be  defended  to 
you  and  Miss  Olivia.  And  now,  sir,  if  you  will  be  pleased  to 
step  aside,  and  leave  me  alone  a  moment  with  this  lady,  I  will 
call  you  when  we  have  ascertained  on  what  she  chooses  to 
decide." 

"  No — my  Bevis — my  Bevis — never  shall  they  part  us  !" 
cried  Olivia ,  flinging  herself  into  his  arms.  "  Tyrants  !  never 
shall  you  tear  me  from  my  husband." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  want  to  ascertain,"  said  my  father. 
"  You  are  not  married,!  know.  When  do  you  propose  to  be  1 
That  you  dare  to  intend  anything  else,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Bevis,  "  I  do  not  venture  to  imagine.  She  is  an  officer's 
daughter — and  has  friends,  sir." 

"  Of  course — that  is,  of  course  not,"  said  the  tutor.  "  Miss 
Olivia  has  intrusted  her  happiness  to  me,  and  you  see  it  is 
very  expensive,  and,  I  think,  very  disreputable,  to  make  a 
journey  into  Scotland.  Miss  Olivia  would  be  very  safe  in 
London  with  my  friends  for  a  few  weeks — till  a  residence " 

"  You  d d  rascally  scoundrel !"  cried  my  father.  "  Olivia 

Talbot,  do  you  hear  this  man  ?  It  is  evident  that  he  has 
marked  you  out  for  ruin.  Come  back  with  us  to  Sandrock — 
to  your  old  father  who  is  dying — to  the  friends  who  care  for 
your  true  good.1' 

But  Olivia  drew  back  from  the  hand  that  he  held  out,  and 
cried,  clinging  to  Bevis,  "  I  will  stay  with  him — nothing  shall 
part  us."  * 


344  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Come  back  to  Sandrock,"  cried  my  father.  "  If  this  man 
can  be  bought  over  to  marry  you,  I  promise  the  consent  of 
your  family  to  the  union." 

"  I  would  not  go  back  to  Sandrock,  if  I  were  to  be  married 
the  very  next  minute,"  cried  Olivia.  "  I  can  trust  Mr.  Bevis, 
and  you  have  no  authority  over  us.  Go  away." 

"  Mr.  Bevis,  I  desire  you  to  leave  this  room,"  said  my  father. 
But  Bevis  sprang  at  him,  and  seized  him  by  the  collar.  My 
father  was  the  taller  man,  Bevis  the  more  powerful.  They 
had  a  tussle  of  some  moments,  each  trying  to  push  the  other 
out  of  the  door. 

Olivia  began  to  shriek  again.  Such  shrill  and  horrid 
shrieks  !  They  brought  part  of  the  population  of  Putney  out 
of  their  beds,  and  quite  a  crowd  assembled  round  the  inn,  who 
took  the  part  of  the  runaways,  vociferating  that  the  lady 
should  not  be  ill  used — they  intended  to  prevent  it — and 
calling  for  a  constable  to  break  in  the  door. 

"  Dear  heart,"  said  the  landlady,  alarmed  for  the  respectabi- 
lity of  her  inn,  "  Can't  you,  sir,  (to  my  father)  calm  the 
people  outside." 

You  could  get  my  father  to  do  anything  by  making  an 
appeal  to  him  for  assistance.  He  ran  to  a  window  in  the  front 
of  the  house,  and  throwing  it  open,  confronted  the  sympa- 
thizers, assuring  them  that  there  was  no  cause  for  apprehen- 
sion— that  the  lady  was  under  the  protection  of  her  friends, 
but  was  rather  excitable.  Just  at  that  moment,  Horace  came 
behind  him,  and  desired  him  to  send  at  once  for  a  doctor. 
Olivia  had  fallen  in  a  fit.  My  father,  exceedingly  alarmed, 
sent  off  for  the  nearest  surgeon.  Hastening  back  into  the 
room,  where  Bevis  and  Olivia  had  been  left,  they  found  the 
door  locked,  while  the  voice  of  the  tutor  within  insultingly 
informed  them  that  they  need  not  trouble  themselves  further — 
that  he  and  Olivia  should  make  themselves  quite  comfortable, 
and  should  not  listen  to  any  more  of  their  representations, 
being  capable  of  managing  their  own  affairs. 

Horace  was  in  despair.  "  It  was  my  fault,"  said  he,  "  all 
my  fault.  If  I  had  not  believed  the  fellow's  word !  I  was  a 
fool.  I  fancied  I  heard  her  fall,  when  all  the  th*e  she  was 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  345 

probably  standing  by  and  laughing  at  my  not  being  able  to 
see  her." 

They  were  joined  by  the  young  doctor,  sent  for  by  my  father, 
who,  when  he  heard  the  case,  appeared  excessively  amused. 

"  The  only  way  I  see,"  said  he,  "  of  getting  in,  is  through 
the  window.  I  suppose  they  have  a  ladder." 

They  ran  into  the  garden,  the  crowd  "jeering  them,  attracted 
and  amused  by  the  publicity  of  the  affair.  A  ladder  was 
planted  against  the  wall,  and  my  father  was  about  to  mount, 
when  Horace  stopped  him,  dragged  him  aside,  and  had  some 
parley  with  him,  after  which  he  ran  up  the  ladder,  broke  a 
pane  of  glass,  and  threw  the  window  open. 

Olivia  again  began  to  shriek. 

"  Open  the  door,  Mr.  Bevis,"  said  my  father.  "  For  her  friends' 
sake,  I  am  come  to  propose  terms  to  you.  The  arrangement 
I  offer  will  be  very  advantageous.  You  may  accept  it  or  not, 
as  you  like.  If  you  reject  it,  I  shall  wash  my  hands  of  Miss 
Olivia." 

"  What  are  your  terms  ?"  said  Bevis. 

"  Open  the  door,"  said  my  father,  springing  into  the  room ; 
"  open  the  door,  for  I  want  witnesses.  Horace,  the  landlady, 
and  the  surgeon  of  the  place,  are  outside." 

"  Don't  open  it,  it  is  a  trick.  Don't  open  it,  my  dearest," 
cried  Olivia,  and  flung  herself  against  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Bevis,"  said  my  father,  "  convince  her  we  are  men  of 
honor :  we  do  not  have  recourse  to  tricks" 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Olivia,"  said  Bevis,  drawing  her  from  the 
door,  and  opening  it. 

When  his  witnesses  came  in,  "  To  both  of  you,"  said  my 
father,  "  in  the  name  and  for  the  sake  of  Miss  Talbot's  family, 
we  propose,  first,  that  you  shall  be  married  to-morrow  morn- 
ing in  London,  by  special  license,  procured  at  our  expense." 

"  By  special  license,  at  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square.  By 
special  license,  my  dear  madam,"  said  the  young  doctor  to 
Olivia.  He  was  the  only  one  of  the  party  the  least  inclined 
to  take  any  notice  of  her.  As  soon  as  he  came  in  he  asked 
leave  to  feel  her  pulse,  begged  her  not  to  give  way  to  agita- 
tion, and  sat  down  by  her  side. 

15* 


346  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Secondly"  said  my  father ;  "  in  consideration  of  this  mar- 
riage, it  is  proposed  by  Horace  Vane,  who  has  the  means  at 
his  disposal,  to  pay  your  passages  to  India,  where  he  will  give 
you,  Mr.  Bevis,  such  letters  to  the  house  of  Vane,  Chetney, 
and  Vane,  as  will  secure  you  a  situation  and  a  competency." 

"  India,  my  dear  madam  !"  said  the  surgeon.  "  The  climate 
of  India  will  be  of  the  greatest  service  to  your  health.  In 
India  you  will  be  a  sort  of  princess ;  palanquins,  natives,  tigers, 
elephants,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  at  your  disposal." 

Olivia  smiled.     My  father  continued. 

"  And,  thirdly,  Mr.  Bevis,  as  we  have  reason  to  suspect  that 
you  owe  debts  to  trades-people,  and  other  persons  in  Sandrock 
and  its  neighborhood,  Mr.  Vane  desires  you  will  engage  to 
remit  him  ten  per  cent,  quarterly  upon  your  salary,  for  the  bene- 
fit of  these  creditors,  to  whom  he  is  willing  to  become  security." 

"  1  do  not  see  that  Horace  has  power  to  do  this,"  said  Bevis, 
"He  is  a  minor,  and  infirm." 

"  You  must  be  quite  aware  that  my  father  will  do  anything 
I  ask,"  said  Horace,  firmly.  "  The  Hill  Farm  I  inherit  from  my 
mother.  I  have  a  much  larger  allowance  than  I  have  ever 
spent,  and  have  funds  in  hand  quite  equal  to  the  payment  of 
your  passage." 

"Lastly,  Mr.  Bevis,"  said  my  father,  "if  you  accept  our  terms, 
we  expect  you  to  leave  Miss  Talbot  in  our  hands  until  her  mar- 
riage. If  we  fail  to  perform  our  part  of  these  engagements,  we 
shall  then  permit  her  to  take  her  own  course,  doing  our  best, 
however,  by  warning  and  advice,  to  prevent  her  elopement  with 
you." 

Bevis,  after  some  consultation  with  Olivia,  having  signified 
his  consent  to  the  proposed  arrangement,  that  young  lady  was 
delivered  over  to  the  landlady,  who  had  strict  injunctions  from 
my  father  not  to  lose  sight  of  her,  and  Bevis  went  down  into 
the  bar,  notwithstanding  her  frantic  efforts  to  detain  him. 

They  offered  a  fee  to  the  young  doctor.  "  You  think  I  have 
earned  it  in  the  exercise  of  my  profession,"  said  he,  laughing ; 
"  you  think  I  deserve  it  for  humbugging  ?" 

"  If  that  be  a  legitimate  branch  of  the  medical  profession,  I 
think  you  quite  a  master  of  your  art." 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  347 

"  One  has  plenty  of  practice,  even  here ;  practice  in  humbug 
I  mean,"  said  the  young  surgeon. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  my  father  was  awakened  by  a 
uoise,  and  sprang  up,  with  a  full  conviction  that  Bevis  was  again 
carrying  oft"  Olivia.  The  flickering  gleams  thrown  through  the 
holes  of  a  tin  shade,  by  an  attenuated  rushlight,  were  too  feeble 
to  enable  him  to  recognise  the  figure  by  his  bed. 

"  It  is  I,"  said  Horace ;  "  I  can't  sleep." 

"  What's  o'clock  V  said  my  father, 

"  It  is  only  a  quarter  after  three,  by  my  repeater." 

Now,  amongst  the  petites  miseres  de  la  vie  humaine,  there  is 
no  brief  suffering  more  acute  than  to  be  called  upon,  when  over- 
come by  sleep,  to  give  your  interest  and  attention  to  a  wake- 
ful person.  My  father  pinched  himself  to  keep  awake,  but 
settling  down  upon  his  pillows,  found  the  task  impossible.  So  he 
fought  his  battle  with  old  Somnus,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  Would  you  very  much  mind,"  said  Horace,  "  letting  Bevis 
ride  on  with  me  to  town,  and  going  yourself  with  Miss  Olivia  I" 

"  Xo.  In  this  affair,  I  am  nothing  but  your  agent.  You 
Lave  the  money  ;  I  wish  to  heaven  I  had !" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Horace,  earnestly,  "you  need  not 
envy  me  the  cash.  I  am  thankful  to  it  for  what  it  can  do,  but 
it  cannot  buy  me  the  sight  of  one  eye.  As  to  Olivia,  I  should 
be  glad  that  task  should  fall  on  you.  I  have  been  dreading 
it  all  night  She  might  take  advantage  of  me.  •  I  dare  say  you 
will  find  her  quite  agreeable.  You  are  a  ladies'  man." 

"  Ladies,  indeed  !"  cried  my  father.  •'  Do  not  insult  the  sex  by 
considering  her  a  lady.  There  is  the  very  devil  in  that  girl." 

"  There  is  little  enough  of  the  fallen  angel  about  her,"  re- 
plied Horace.  "  Everything  I  ever  saw  in  her  was  low  and 
mean.  There  are  none  of  those  perverted  grand  qualities  which 
Milton  took  to  form  his  Satan." 

i;  True  ;  but  Milton's  Satan  is  a  Titan,  not  a  devil." 

Which  literary  observation  gave  a  pang  to  my  father,  as  he 
uttered  it,  recalling  the  note  of  his  publisher,  and  the  failure  of 
his  production. 

"  What  did  she  mean  to-night,"  said  Horace,  sitting  on  the 
bed,  u  about  her  running  off  with  a  Frenchman." 


348  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Who  mean,  about  what  ?"  said  my  father. 

"  About  Amabel  and  a  French  officer  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  said  my  father,  rousing  himself  from  the  embrace  of 
his  beloved  divinity,  "  It  is  a  great  secret,  but,  I  suppose,  Horace, 
I  may  tell  yow." 

As  he  went  on,  he  warmed  into  the  history ;  and  the  earliest 
rays  of  dawn  having,  before  he  had  done,  fallen  aslant  into  the 
chamber,  he  sprang  up,  dismissed  Horace  to  dress,  and  sent  to 
call  Bevis  and  Miss  Olivia. 

He  had  the  satisfaction  of  being  as  severely  snubbed  as 
circumstances  would  permit,  by  Olivia,  who  would  take  no 
notice  of  him  when  she  came  into  the  room ;  nor  would  she 
drink  tea,  because  he  presided  over  the  tea-pot,  but  shared  the 
poached  eggs  and  buttered  toast  of  her  bridegroom,  who  seem- 
ed by  no  means  willing  to  reciprocate  her  demonstrations  of 
affection. 

Nothing  could  have  been  less  interesting  to  my  father,  than 
his  journey  up  to  town  with  her.  Not  a  word,  for  many  miles, 
was  exchanged  between  them.  As  they  were  entering  London 
he  roused  himself,  in  spite  of  his  dislike,  to  point  out  objects  of 
interest ;  but  Olivia  turned  him  the  cold  shoulder,  till,  as  the 
carriage  passed  along  the  Edgeware  road,  her  attention  was 
caught  by  a  milliner's  window. 

"  Mr.  Ord,"  said  she,  turning  round  with  sudden  animation, 
"  I  want  a  bonnet  to  be  married  in.  I  am  not  fit  to  go  to  church 
in  this  fright  of  a  thing." 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Talbot." 

He  stopped  the  carriage.  She  went  in  and  selected  the  one 
that  pleased  her  taste,  sat  down,  and  waited  half  an  hour  in  the 
shop,  while  they  trimmed  it  with  orange  flowers,  and  finally, 
she  requested  my  father  to  lend  her  the  money  to  pay  for  it. 

He  gave  her  the  few  pounds  he  had  in  his  purse,  and,  sud- 
denly remembering  that  if  she  went  to  India  she  must  be  pro- 
vided with  an  outfit,  he  took  great  pleasure  in  the  thought  that 
be  could  thus  indirectly  offer  his  little  purse  to  Amabel.  It  had 
distressed  him  to  think  that  Horace  alone  was  to  assist  her 
with  money.  He  cursed,  in  his  heart,  the  "  Lazy  Longings" 
which  had  cost  him  a- hundred  pounds,  which  might  have  been 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  349 

of  use  to  her ;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  Olivia  safely  deposit- 
ed in  a  parlor  at  an  inn  contiguous  to  St.  George's,  he  went 
to  his  banking  house,  which  happened  not  to  be  in  the  city, 
and  drew  out  his  little  balance,  which  he  put  into  her  hand. 

"  Oh  !  thank  you,  Mr.  Ord,"  said  she ;  "  I  have  been  talking 
to  the  chambermaid,  and  she  tells  me  there  are  lovely  summer 
muslins  to  be  had  cheap  at  this  time  of  year." 

"  Miss  Talbot,"  said  my  father,  solemnly,  "  let  me  advise  you 
to  remember  that  your  wedding  wardrobe  will  probably  be 
mourning." 

"  You  are  very  unkind  to  me,  all  of  you,"  said  Olivia,  burst- 
ing into  tears.  "  You  want  to  make  me  unhappy  at  my  wed- 
ding ;  but  here  they  come  !"  she  added,  running  to  the  window, 
and  seeing  Bevis  and  Horace  get  out  of  a  coach.  "  In  another 
half  hour  I  shall  be  Mrs.  Bevis.  I  wonder  whether  that  old 
monster  has  thought  to  buy  the  ring !" 


CHAPTER    XII. 

All  my  life  long 

I  have  beheld  with  most  respect  the  man 
Who  kjiew  himself,  and  knew  the  ways  before  hjm. 
And  from  amongst  them  chose  considerately 
With  a  clear  foresight— not  a  blindfold  courage, — 
And,  having  chosen,  with  a  steadfast  mind 
Pursued  his  purposes. 

TAYLOR.— Philip  Van  Artevelde. 

ON  the  register  of  St.  George's,  am'ongst  names  of  note  and 
fashion,  ladies  to  whom  the  Duke  has  acted  father,  bride- 
grooms with  long  pedigrees,  and  fashionable  brides,  stands  the 
obscure  record  of  this  marriage. 

The  clergyman  who  performed  the  ceremony  wondered  at 
the  unfashionable  character  of  parties  who  were  married  by 
special  license,  and  at  the  smalluess  of  his  fee.  Immediately 
after  the  marriage  Bevis  and  Horace  went  again  into  the  city. 
My  father  would  have  accompanied  them,  but  Olivia,  in  high 


350  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

spirits,  seized  him  by  the   arm,  and  insisted   on   his  going 
shopping. 

"  I  will  introduce  you,  Mrs.  Bevis,"  said  he,  "  to  a  friend  of 
mine,  a  fashionable  milliner  and  dressmaker  in  Bond  street." 

"  La !  Mr.  Ord,  how  ever  did  you  get  acquainted  with  such 
a  person  ?"  said  Olivia. 

"  We  were  both  detenus  at  Verdun,"  said  my  father.  "  I 
was  taken  prisoner,  near  Rome,  in  1812,  having  been  sent  on 
boat  service  up  the  Tiber.  They  marched  me  all  through  Italy, 
into  the  heart  of  France.  I  was  recommended,  when  I  reached 
Verdun,  to  board  with  this  Miss  Graham,  who  was  exceedingly 
kind  to  midshipmen.  She  and  her  sister  had  been  daughters 
of  a  Scotch  officer,  who,  dying,  left  them  unprovided  for ;  and, 
with  that  rare  courage  which  can  sacrifice,  when  circumstances 
demand  it,  a  fiction  of  gentility,  they  came  up  to  London  to  be 
milliners.  They  were  doing  very  well,  when,  at  the  Peace  of 
Amiens,  Miss  Flora,  my  friend,  went  over  to  France  to  get  the 
fashions.  The  war  broke  out,  and  she  was  sent  to  Verdun. 
Having  some  little  means  she  set  up  a  pension,  which  was  of 
the  greatest  service  to  her  countrymen ;  and  I  owe  more  to 
Miss  Flora  than  to  almdst  any  person  living,  for  there  were 
plenty  of  temptations  at  Verdun  for  a  friendless  little  middy.  I 
never  come  up  to  town  without  going  to  see  her.  She  is  to  me 
a  living  monument  of  the  good  that  a  plain  single  woman,  with 
small  means,  may  quietly  accomplish." 

So  saying,  without  noticing  the  toss  of  Olivia's  head  at  his 
mention  of  old  maids,  my  father  knocked  at  Miss  Graham's 
door  in  Bond  street,  and  was  admitted  into  the  show-room. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Miss  Flora,"  he  said  to  the  young  per- 
son who  received  them  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  a  quiet-looking 
old  lady,  dressed  in  black,  came  in. 

"  Is  this  your  lady,  Mr.  Ord  ?"  she  said,  observing  the  bridal 
flowers  in  the  bonnet  of  Olivia. 

"  No,  Miss  Flora  !  She  is  a  lady  just  married,  who  is  going 
out  to  India.  I  am  the  friend  of  her  family,  and  have  brought 
her  to  you." 

He  whispered  something  aside,  to  which  Miss  Graham  an- 
swered, "  Certainly,  Mr.  Ord,  to  any  Mend  of  yours." 


AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  351 

Olivia  was  already  trying  on  some  very  flashy  and  expensive 
millinery. 

"  I  would  not  advise  you  to  buy  these  things  to-day,  Mrs. 
Bevis,"  said  my  father.  "  Miss  Graham  will  be  glad  to  see  you 
another  time." 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  buying  anything,  I  assure  you,"  said 
Olivia.  But  she  stayed  so  long,  pulling  over  every  flower,  cap, 
and  bonnet  in  the  show-room,  that  they  did  not  get  back  to 
the  hotel  till  after  the  two  gentlemen  had  returned  from  the 
city.  There  was  barely  time  for  my  father  and  Horace  to  take 
the  Hampshire  mail. 

***** 

It  was  six  in  the  morning  when  the  chaise  in  which  they 
had,  with  some  difficulty,  made  their  way  across  the  heath, 
stopped  at  the  bridge  of  Sandrock,  and  my  father  jumped 
out. 

"  Go  to  bed  at  once,  old  boy,"  he  said  to  Horace.  "  I  will 
come  up  soon,  and  let  you  know." 

As  he  swung  himself  over  the  stile,  and  gained  the  path, 
which  was  to  lead  him  by  a  short  cut  to  her  cottage,  he  heard 
the  church  bell  of  the  village  begin  to  toll.  All  the  sweet  in- 
fluences of  early  dawn  were  abroad  that  morning.  Though 
overhead  the  sky  seemed  clear,  a  softening  mist  mellowed  the 
purple  distance,  and  the  eye  lingered  upon  objects  in  the  fore- 
ground :  the  mountain  ashes  with  their  tufts,  the  hazels  at  whose 
roots  peeped  forth  the  autumn  violet,  the  hawthorn  covert 
where  the  linnet  sang. 

The  turf  along  the  path  was  dry  under  his  feet ;  here  and 
there,  as  he  passed,  some  tall,  dry,  slender  weed  crackled,  when 
he  brushed  it  by.  Autumn  had  mellowed  with  its  touch  the 
brown  tints  of  the  beeches,  and  an  early  frost  had  given  a  rus- 
set glow  to  all  the  foliage  of  the  wood.  On  one  side  bubbled 
a  blithe  brooklet — to  him  its  murmur  seemed  to  babble  of 
those  happy  days  when  her  footsteps  had  hallowed  the  same 
path  as  she  paid  her  daily  visits  to  the  Hill  Farm,  during  the 
sickness  of  Horace.  A  breeze  began  to  tremble  over  the  leaves 
of  the  copse  ;  it  played  across  the  stubble  field.  On  the  day 
when  his  hopes  were  brightest,  the  young  wheat  had  been 


352  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

springing  green  and  fresh  above  the  furrows.  It  had  ripened, 
and  been  reaped,  gleaned,  and  garnered,  since  then. 

Another  breeze  flew  by  him ; — the  solemn  knell  it  bore 
seemed  to  strike  upon  his  heart.  Mounting  a  rising  ground 
which  led  out  of  the  copse,  he  paused  beside  a  stile  and  looked 
around  the  moor,  which  had  been  brown  and  bare  during  his 
spring  visit,  and  now  was  purple  with  the  heath  in  flower.  An 
exclamation  of  astonishment  escaped  him.  It  had  been  morning 
twilight  as  he  crossed  the  heath,  and  the  full  beauty  of  the 
change  now  broke  upon  him  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  sun. 

On  every  side  but  one,  stretched  out  the  moorland  landscape. 
On  that  one  side  the  copse  was  parted  from  the  heath  by  a  fringe 
of  flowering  broom.  Every  waft  of  wind  that  reached  him 
from  the  heath,  seemed  to  bear  and  scatter  perfume.  Though 
no  man  was  to  be  seen  at  that  early  hour  of  the  morning,  life 
was  not  wanting  to  animate  the  landscape.  The  "  heavy  winged 
thieves,"  who  love  the  sweet  farina  of  the  moorland,  flew  past 
him  with  their  spoils.  Cattle  were  standing  in  the  fields 
through  which  he  had  to  pass ;  brown  sheep  were  grazing  on 
the  purple  hills.  All  was  so  still,  it  hushed  his  heart — so  still ! 
— save  where  the  bell  of  death  gave  forth  its  warning  knell. 

He  walked  on,  almost  in  a  dream.  He  entered  the  premises 
by  the  gate  under  the  arch  of  ivy.  The  once  familiar  door 
bell  had  now  a  jarring  sound. 

"  How  is  the  Captain  ?"  he  said  to  the  old  woman  who  opened 
the  door  to  him. 

"  The  Captain  is  dead,  sir,"  she  replied.  Her  face  had  told 
him  so  before  she  spoke.  "  He  die.d  at  five  o'clock  this  morn- 
ing." 

u  Marriage  and  death, — mourning  and  feasting — Sarah,"  said 
my  father,  musingly.  "  Miss  Olivia  is  married.  Can  1  see 
your  mistress  ?" 

"  Walk  in,  sir.  She  is  still  in  his  room  ;  I  will  call  her,  if  you 
please  to  wait,  sir." 

She  showed  him  into  the  dining  parlor.  Not  having  chosen 
to  go  to  bed  since  the  event,  she  had  set  out,  the  breakfast 
table  with  snowy  napery,  white  cups,  and  plates,  the  honey  of 
the  heath,  and  home-made  bread,  upon  a  wooden  trencher. 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  353 

He  stood  at  the  -window,  watching  the  light  mist  that  was 
rising  from  the  river — hearing  the  solemn  bell  which  announ- 
ced to  the  neighborhood  the  departure  of  a  soul.  Amabel  came 
^n,  dressed  in  white,  in  a  loose  dimity  wrapper.  Over  her 
shoulders  hung  the  soft  folds  of  her  cashmere.  She  looked  very 
pale.  The  shock  of  the  night  had  opened  the  sluices  of  her 
tears.  She  wept  not  only  for  her  recent  loss,  but  for  her  earlier 
sorrows.  Since  her  health  had  been  less  strong,  her  face,  when 
in  repose,  had  expressed  that  condition  of  the  heart  so  beauti- 
fully described  by  Longfellow : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
But  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  rain. 

She  greeted  him  with  a  sad,  quiet  gentleness,  unlike  her  usual 
cordiality  of  manner. 

"  Sarah  says  Olivia  is  married,"  she  began. 

"  Yes,  thank  God ;  she  is  safe,"  he  said. 

"  But  what  a  safety !"  she  exclaimed.  "  To  be  the  wife  of 
Bevis  !" 

My  father  endeavored  to  comfort  her.  While  he  continued 
speaking,  she  sat  down  at  the  table  and  poured  out  tea.  As 
he  watched  her,  he  felt. how  unspeakably  blessed  would  be  that 
home  of  which  she  was  the  presiding  spirit ;  and  his  cousin  who 
had  owned  this  pearl  of  price,  thought  its  possession  a  disgrace, 
and  cast  it  from  him.  To  abandon  such  a  woman,  to  leave 
her  exposed  to  the  chance  influences  of  life,  to  evil  men  and 
evil  days,  struck  him  as  cruel  and  unmanly.  To  do  penance 
for  such  thoughts — to  raise  an  additional  barrier  between  her 
and  himself — he  told  her  before  he  left,  he  had  had  a  recent 
letter  from  her  husband — there  was  nothing  in  it  about  her — 
but  would  she  like  to  read  it? 

"  Oh  !  so  much  !"  The  trembling  eagerness  with  which  she 
took  it,  the  wistful  way  in  which  she  gazed  at  the  direction  till 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  went  to  his  heart,  He  took  up  his 
hat  and  left  her  with  the  letter. 

It  was  a  long  letter,  written  in  one  of  those  moments  of 
yearning  after  home,  which  soften  the  heart  of  the  wanderer. 


354  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

It  began  by  entreating  Theodosius  to  go  and  see  his  children, 
and  to  write  him  word  how  they  looked,  how  much  they  had 
grown,  if  they  were  happy.  "  I  have  been  driven  forth,"  he 
said,  "  from  my  home,  and  its  affections,  and  have  learned  by 
misfortune  that  without  the  enjoyment  of  such  blessings  there 
is  no  real  happiness,  and  that  with  them  there  is  no  excuse  for 
sorrow  or  discontent." 

Speaking  of  certain  political  changes  that  were  agitating 
England  at  that  period,  he  went  on  to  say :  "  I  am  isolated  from 
all  mankind — for  I  rarely  go  ashore  unless  I  land  upon  the 
savage  coast  of  Barbary,  off  which  I  am  engaged  in  cruising, 
and  occasionally  giving  chase  to  a  corsair.  I  am  without  a 
human  being  near  me  from  whom  I  can  imbibe  an  idea  or  a 
prejudice,  for  my  society  consists  solely  of  young  officers,  with 
whom  I  have  only  a  professional  intercourse ;  so  that  I  am 
mostly  alone.  I  can,  therefore,  view  impartially  the  questions 
which  quicken  the  pulses  and  flush  the  cheeks  of  our  orators 
and  statesmen,  and  look  back  with  surprise  upon  the  days  in 
which  I  chafed  with  all  the  ardor  and  bitter  emotions  of  a  par- 
tisan. As  regards  the  future,  all  my  buoyancy  and  sanguine 
temperament  have  disappeared.  My  health  is  good,  and  I  take 
much  exercise.  Physical  fatigue  deadens  reflection.  The 
excitement  of  my  duty  keeps  me  all  day  upon  deck ;  at  night  I 
retire  early  to  my  cabin.  There  is  something  congenial  to  my 
spirit  in  being  day  after  day  upon  the  wild  waters,  which  for 
all  I  know,  or  perhaps  care,  may  be  my  resting-place." 

The  feelings  of  her  heart  as  she  read  this,  have  since  that 
day  been  forcibly  expressed  in  that  most  heart-rending  poem, 
The  Valediction,  in  which  Miss  Barrett  has  given  voice  to  the 
inarticulate  grief  of  hundreds  of  her  sex ;  who,  adopting  and 
repeating  it,  have  found  it  a  cry  of  relief  to  their  own  souls : 

Can  I  bless  thee,  my  beloved — can  I  bless  thee  ? 

What  blessing  word  can  I 

From  my  own  tears  keep  dry" 
What  flower  grows  In  my  field  wherewith  to  dress  thee  ? 

My  good  reverts  to  ill  ; — 

My  calmnesses  would  move  thee — 

My  softnesses  would  prick  thea 

My  bindings  up  would  break  thee, 

My  crownings  curse  and  kill. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  355 

Alas  !  I  can  but  love  thee  ! 
May  God  bless  thee,  my  beloved — may  God  bless  thee  ! 

It  seemed  most  strange  that  while  her  life  was  full  of  recol- 
lections of  her  husband,  she  should  have  no  longer  part  or  lot 
in  any  of  his  daily  interests.  That  while  his  memory  lay  so 
deeply  in  her  heart,  that  she  prayed  for  him  morning  and  night, 
and  while  her  own  life  seemed  in  every  way  connected  with  his 
remembrance,  she  should  have  been  living  with  so  little  real 
knowledge  of  his  actual  employments  and  his  state  of  feeling. 
The  information  that  she  gained  seemed  to  remove  him  further 
off  from  her  than  ever. 

She  was  eager  to  reconcile  the  Leonard  who  was  always  in 
her  thoughts  with  the  Leonard  of  reality.  When  Theodosius 
came  in,  later  in  the  day,  she  questioned  him  (timidly  at  first), 
about  her  husband.  And  he,  finding  how  deeply  she  was  inte- 
rested by  any  trivial  anecdote  of  Captain  Warner,  submitted,  at 
the  price  of  his  self  love,  to  give  her  pleasure. 

They  spent  that  afternoon  walking  up  and  down  the  grass 
plot — the  next  day  he  came  early,  and  the  next.  If  they  found 
themselves  alone  they  talked  of  Leonard.  The  week  the  Tal- 
bot  family  passed  in  strict  seclusion,  while  death  was  in  the 
house,  was  not  unhappy.  Already  Theodosius  and  Horace 
began  planning  for  the  future,  the  former  telling  her  that  she 
must  ride  that  autumn,  and  proposing  to  brush  up  all  his 
learning,  and  to  help  to  teach  the  boys.  He  was  resolved  to 
spend  the  winter  at  the  Hill  Farm,  and  Horace  was  delighted 
with  the  plan. 

Since  they  had  talked  so  much  of  Leonard,  she  seemed  to  my 
father  less  the  love  of  his  past  dreams  than  the  wife  of  his 
cousin.  Their  intercourse  was  nearly  on  its  old  footing. 

After  the  funeral,  my  father  walked  up  with  her  to  her 
house.  He  spoke  again  of  how  much  good  it  would  do  her  to 
ride  on  horseback  on  the  moors. 

"  Now  that  Olivia  is  married,"  said  he,  "  and  your  cares  have 
become  less,  we  shall  see  you  no  longer 

"  Compelled  to  suffer  through  the  day] 
Restraints  which  no  rewards  repay, 
And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern  " 


356  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Oh !  you  mistake,  indeed  you  do,"  said  she.  "  Love  has 
had  great  concern  in  all  my  cares.  Those  that  were  once  dis- 
tasteful have  become  dear  to  me  as  discipline ;  and  I  shall  sadly 
miss  my  dear  step-father.  I  was  most  sincerely  attached  to 
him." 

"  How  much  more  disinterested  women  are,  than  we  !"  ex- 
claimed my  father ;  "  a  man  could  not  say  that  of  the  man  who 
had  ruined  him." 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,"  said  Amabel,  "  to  speak  lightly  of  the 
errors  into  which  a  man  may  be  led  by  a  taste  for  speculation, 
a  word  which,  somebody  has  remarked,  too  often  begins  with 
the  second  letter.  Do  you  think,"  she  added,  after  a  pause, 
u  one  never  can  retrieve  a  fault  ?  Do  you  not  think  that,  though 
one  can  never  be  the  same  one  would  have  been,  had  it  never 
been  committed,  one  may  be  better  ?  Is  not  error  an  element 
of  progress  ?  Do  you  think  it  signifies  essentially  what  '  the 
world'  says  of  us,  if  we  have  the  consciousness  within  our 
hearts  of  improvement  and  integrity  ?  Ought  one  not  to  take 
even  the  unjust  things  the  world  says  as  the  natural  and  just 
punishment  of  former  error?" 

She  spoke  with  a  tearful  eagerness  which  made  my  father 
feel  she  was  applying  all  she  uttered  to  herself. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  "  you  always  are.  The  world's 
opinion  is  measured  upon  a  shadow,  thrown  off  from  what  we 
are.  And  if  we  die  with  a  vertical  sun  over  our  heads,  before 
the  world  has  time  to  take  our  altitude  by  our  shadow,  what 
does  it  signify,  so  we  are  what  we  ought  to  be,  and  the  right 
work  has  been  done  ?' 

The  light  of  her  eyes,  the  grave  smile  on  her  lip,  told  him 
she  felt  deeply  and  applied  his  simile.  For  a,  few  minutes  she 
was  silent. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  "  there  is  something  I  wish  to  ask. 
Oh' via  writes  to  Annie  that  you  have  some  acquaintance  with 
a  respectable  and  worthy  dressmaker  ;  do  you  think  she  would 
take  Annie  for  a  small  premium  ?  The  poor  child  earnestly  de- 
sires it.  She  has  no  aptitude  for  study,  no  taste  for  teaching. 
She  must  make  her  own  way  in  the  world.  There  are  so  many 
governesses !" 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  357 

"  But  an  officer's  daughter  !"  cried  my  father,  forgetting  what 
he  had  said  an  the  subject  to  Olivia  not  ten  days  before. 

"  That  consideration  is  the  shadow  of  a  shade,"  said  Amabel, 
with  a  smile.  "Poor  little  Annie  has  taken  a  wiser  view. 
Miss  Darius,  our  dressmaker  at  F ,  will  take  her  into  part- 
nership, if  she  can  obtain  proper  instruction." 

"  And  what  are  your  own  plans  f '  said  my  father. 

"  I  shall  go  out  as  governess,  if  I  can  find  a  situation.  The 
position  may  be  odious,  but  the  employment  would  not  be 
distasteful  to  me.  I  should  like  a  situation  in  which  I  could 
take  a  summer  holiday,  and  gather  my  brothers  and  Annie  un- 
der my  wing.  Ned  I  must  place  somewhere,  till  he  is  old 
enough  to  go  to  sea,  and  Joseph  must  be  put  to  a  cheap  school. 
I  have  luckily  a  little  money  left,  and  I  think  I  could  manage 
this,  if  my  services  would  command  a  tolerable  salary." 

"  If  we  could  get  Xed  into  the  naval  school,  it  would  be  a 
great  thing.  He  is  just  the  fellow  for  sea." 

"  Yes,"  said  Amabel,  with  pride  in  her  pet  brother.  "  It  will 
be  hard  for  me  to  part  with  them, — with  him,  hardest  of  all." 

Horace  and  my  father  would  have  admired  and  respected 
her  more  than  ever,  could  they  have  overheard  that  night,  her 
affectionate  discourse  with  the  young  orphans.  To  Ned  she 
talked  cheerily  of  his  fancy  for  the  sea,  encouraging  his  boy- 
ish hope  that  one  day,  if  he  were  brave  and  good,  he  would  rise 
to  be  an  Admiral ;  whilst  to  Joe,  she  promised  a  supply  of 
"  taws,"  and  "  alleys,"  engaging  to  put  a  long  tail  to  his  kite, 
and  encouraging  him  to  look  with  pleasant  hopes  to  his  pros- 
pect of  going  to  school.  Annie,  when  the  boys  were  gone  to  rest, 
threw  her  arms  about  her  neck,  and  laid  her  head  upon  her  breast, 
and  wept,  and  kissed  her.  Amabel,  whilst  she  uttered  words  of 
encouragement  and  consolation,  breathed  a  prayer,  that  Annie's 
efforts  to  earn  her  own  poor  crust  might  not  be  long  required ; 
that  she  herself  might  be  soon  at  liberty  to  offer  her  shelter 
and  a  home  under  the  roof  of  her  husband. 

"  Had  I  never  failed  in  duty,"  was  her  thought,  "  I  should  at 
this  crisis  have  been  mistress  of  the  Cedars.  I  should  have  had 
a  home  to  offer  these  young  creatures,  who,  now,  as  a  conse- 
quence of  my  fault,  are  thrust  out  into  the  world." 


358  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  BISTORT. 

THEODOSIUS  TO  AMABEL. 

"Warwick  Street,  Oct.  14,  1819. 
"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  LEONARD  : 

"  I  have  seen  Miss  Graham,  and  have  easily  persuaded  her  to 
take  Miss  Annie.  Miss  G.  desires  me  to  say,  that  she  will  do 
all  in  her  power  to  favor  the  poor  child,  and  to  soften  the  rigors 
of  her  situation  ;  but  that  there  must  necessarily  be  much,  both 
in  the  working  of  the  present  system,  and  her  association  with 
unrefined  young  persons  of  inferior  position,  that  will  be  very 
distasteful  to  her.  Still,  Miss  Flora,  who  has  gone  herself 
through  the  ordeal,  thinks  she  is  doing  the  right  thing,  and 
will,  as  much  as  possible,  cherish  and  protect  her.  There  is  no 
other  establishment  in  town  where  she  would  not  have  to  work 
after  nine,  for  women,  as  a  class,  are  very  cruel  to  women  ;  but 
Miss  Graham,  unless  pressed  in  the  height  of  the  season,  never 
keeps  her  young  ladies  beyond  that  hour.  She  thinks  Annie 
will  find  it  an  advantage  to  begin  her  apprenticeship  at  once, 
as  she  will  become  accustomed  to  the  work  and  the  confinement 
before  the  season.  It  seems  a  hard  life  for  her,  dear  Amabel, 
and  if  her  heart  misgives  her,  the  stipulation  I  have  made  at 
your  request  leaves  her  free  at  any  time. 

"  In  Bond  street,  as  I  was  passing  your  late  father's  club,  I 
met  Admiral  Lord  Epervier.  I  have  only  a  slight  acquaintance 
with  his  lordship,  but  knowing  him  to  be  the  President  of  the 
Naval  School,  I  ventured  to  accost  him.  His  lordship  was 
extremely  gracious,  gave  me  a  paper  of  the  rules  and  regula- 
tions, and  took  me  into  the  Club,  where  he  introduced  me  to 
several  gentlemen.  I  found  amongst  these  Sir  Jeremiah  Thomp- 
son, just  come  up  from  the  eastern  counties,  who  promised  to 
interest  himself  for  '  Talbot's  son.'  You  will  see  by  the  paper 
I  inclose,  that  the  pupils  are  of  three  classes.  Those  who  pay 
£100  a  year  for  their  schooling,  of  whom  John  Warner  is  one  ; 
those  who  pay  £35,  the  bare  cost  of  their  board  and  instruction, 
and  the  pupils  on  the  foundation,  who  pay  nothing  at  all.  I 
have  thought  you  would  prefer  Ned  should  enter  as  the  second 
kind  of  pupil,  especially  as  I  find  I  can  procure  money  to  pay 
his  way  from  the  naval  fund. 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  Brighton  to  see  Miss  Taylor,  a  good 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  359 

old  soul,  the  aunt  of  Horace,  and  my  own  near  connexion.  It 
was  from  her  house  Captain  Warner  married  his  first  wife,  who 
was  her  relation.  I  find,  on  examining  a  list  of  persons  having 
the  right  of  presentation  to  Christ's  Hospital,  that  she  is  one, 
and  that  her  turn  is  near  at  hand.  I  make  little  doubt  I  can 
so  manage  as  to  get.  her  presentation  for  Joseph.  As  you  are 
so  great  a  stranger  in  London  I  send  you  Lamb's  book  on 
Christ's  Hospital,  to  prepare  your  mind  for  seeing  him  in  the 
horrible  disguise  of  a  Blue  Coat  Boy. 

"  In  haste,  ever  sincerely  yours,  "  THEO.  ORD." 

THEODOSIUS   TO    AMABEL. 

"Brighton,  October  18,  1819. 
"  DEAR  MRS.  LEONARD  : 

"  I  took  my  maiden  relative  completely  by  surprise,  and 
flurried  her  not  a  little.  She  gave  me  at  once  to  understand 
she  had  promised  her  presentation  to  Christ's  Hospital,  and  has 
refused  hundreds  of  applications.  Knowing  my  good  aunt's 
way  of  doing  business,  I  ventured  to  inquire  when,  where,  and 
to  whom  she  had  given  her  promise,  and  found  that,  ten  years 
ago,  when  she  had  her  last  chance,  she  had  been  obliged  to  dis- 
appoint a  very  worthy  country  parson,  and  had  promised  to  give 
a  younger  child  of  his  her  next  turn.  I  inquired  if  she  knew 
anything  about  this  child,  and  finding  she  did  not,  suggested 
she  should  write  and  ascertain  about  him.  She  wrote  that 
very  day,  and  before  she  got  her  answer  had  worked  herself  up 
to  a  great  pitch  of  anxiety  and  enthusiasm.  I  talked  to  her  a 
great  deal  about  you,  and  her  fits  of  irritation  at  herself  for  her 
unlucky  promise,  and  of  hope  the  child  was  dead,  were 
exceedingly  diverting.  This  morning  she  received  her  answer, 
when,  to  my  very  great  amusement  and  her  own  content,  we 
discover  that  the  promise  she  had  made  was  ante-natal.  The 
infant  happened  to  be  born  a  girl,  and  the  father  thought  no 
more  of  it.  This  anecdote  is  Miss  Taylor  all  over.  You  have 
Miss  Taylor  before  you,  blindly,  blunderingly  enthusiastic, 
fussily  benevolent,  inconsequente,  but  with  a  freshness  of 
interest  in  the  concerns  of  her  fellow-creatures,  very  unusual 


860  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

with  a  person  of  her  age.     She  is  the  kindest-hearted  woman 
in  the  world,  and  the  most  persuadable. 

"  I  have  told  her  it  is  her  duty  to  invite  Horace  to  make  her 
house  his  residence  till  his  father  makes  some  arrangement  to 
replace  Bevis,  but  she  has  a  nervous  fear  of  any  one  afflict- 
ed with  personal  infirmity.  She  will  worry  him  out  of  his  life 
by  her  attentions,  will  persist  in  considering  him  helpless,  and 
in  spite  of  all  possible  remonstrances,  if  he  is  delivered  over  to 
her  care,  I  have  no  doubt  she  will  feed  him  with  a  spoon. 

44  She  has  made  me  this  morning  a  proposition  which,  under 
these  circumstances,  I  think  very  good.  She  wishes  to  know 
whether  you  could  be  induced  to  accompany  Horace,  and  be 
governess  to  a  little  girl  she  is  going  to  take  home  from  school. 
I  earnestly  advise  you  to  accept  this  offer.  Miss  T.  begs  you  will 
dictate  your  terms,  and  will  listen  to  any  stipulation.  You  may 
govern  her  and  all  her  household,  for  she  is  of  a  timid  and  un- 
certain nature,  made  to  be  ruled  by  a  strong  mind.  She  is 
wildly  enthusiastic  about  you  at  this  moment.  She  is  disposed 
to  do  anything  to  serve  you.  There  is  no  person  on  earth  with 
whom  she  so  much  desires  to  be  acquainted.  You  will  at  once 
establish  an  influence  which  will  be  of  equal  service  to  her  and 
to  Horace,  to  yours  and  to  you.  I  should  like  to  have  an  an- 
swer as  soon  as  possible.  Miss  T.,  indeed,  suggested  sending 
this  by  express,  though  there  is  in  reality  no  hurry.  Meantime 
take  care  of  yourself,  my  dear  friend,  consult  Horace,  and  be- 
lieve me  ever, 

"  Your  attached  friend  and  cousin, 

"  THEO.  ORD." 


CHAPTER 

God  assigns 

All  thy  tears  over  like  pure  crystalline* 
For  younger  fellow  workers  of  the  soil 
To  wear  as  amulets.  MRS.  BROWNING. 


Miss  Taylor  had  a  house  on  the  Old  Steyne.     Thither  our 
principal  dramatis  persona   are   now    converging.      Captain 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  361 

Wariier,  to  be  sure,  is  not  making  a  straight  course  for  Brighton, 
having  just  passed  through  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  with 
despatches  for  Sir  Hudson  Lowe  at  St.  Helena ;  but  the  frigate 
that  he  commands  is  thence  to  return  to  England ;  his  thoughts 
dwell  often  on  his  native  land ;  and,  in  consequence  of  letters 
he  has  just  received,  chiefly  fix  themselves  on  the  Old  Steyue. 

Theodosius,  Amabel,  and  Horace,  are  approaching  it  by 
mail.  As  for  Annie,  Ned,  and  Joseph,  the  tide  of  the  great 
city  has  swept  them  from  our  view. 

With  an  aching  heart,  Amabel  committed  her  young  sister 
to  Miss  Flora,  feeling  that  "  the  system,"  like  that  of  slavery  or 
despotism,  can  only  be  made  endurable  by  the  intervention  of 
"  happy  accident,"  in  the  character  of  those  by  whom  it  is 
administered.  Annie  Talbot,  without  any  literary  capacity,  had 
exhibited,  since  her  father's  death,  an  energy  of  purpose  which 
had  greatly  endeared  her  to  Amabel. 

Joseph  was  already  on  his  way  to  the  Blue  Coat  nursery,  at 
Hertford.  Ned  had  been  left  at  the  naval  school.  He  took 
leave  of  his  sister  in  the  carriage.  He  struggled  hard  to  main- 
tain that  firmness  at  parting  which  custom  considers  the  best 
preparation  for  manliness,  but  natural  feelings  got  the  better  of 
stoic  pride — he  threw  himself  on  her  breast,  and  began  to  cry. 
He  was  comforted  somewhat  by  receiving  a  purse,  which  she 
had  knit  for  him,  containing  three  new  half-crowns. 

Still  drawing  his  breath  hard,  he  followed  Theodosius  Ord 
into  the  parlor  of  the  establishment.  Theodosius  asked  for 
Warner,  and  after  committing  Talbot  to  the  care  of  that  young 
fellow,  and  tipping  him  with  liberality,  that  he  might  remember 
to  protect  Ned's  entrance  nto  the  school,  he  returned  to  Ama- 
bel, accompanied  to  the  gate  by  the  two  boys.  The  children 
made  a  contrast  which  smote  her  to  the  heart.  Ned,  with  his 
dark  and  glossy  curls,  his  animated  eyes,  free  movements,  and 
fresh  cheeks,  had  the  air  of  a  boy  nurtured  with  care ;  John 
Warner  was  a  pale  neglected  schoolboy.  He  had  a  look  as  if  he 
were  not  accustomed  to  receive  visitors — as  if  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  ties  of  home. 

Wrapped  in  sad  thoughts,  she  sat  in  one  corner  of  the  coach, 
travelling  towards  Brighton,  when  she  waa  roused  to  attention 

16 


362  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

by  the  conversation  of  Tbeodosius  with  the  fourth  inside 
passenger.  Captain  Warner's  conversation  had  been  distin- 
guished for  its  picturesque  and  admirable  style  of  anecdote, 
Ferdinand  Guiscard's  by  its  adaptiveness,  but  she  had  never 
met  before  a  first-rate  practised  converser :  one  of  those  men 
who  are  so  brilliantly  agreeable  when  thrown  a  little  out  of 
their  own  sphere,  because  they  have  at  command  not  only  the 
current  chit-chat  of  the  day,  but  staler  stories  of  the  year 
before,  which  cannot  be  made  available  in  their  own  circle,  the 
laws  of  which  forbid  a  twice-told  tale. 

This  No.  4,  inside  the  mail,  was  a  man  of  this  description. 
When  Amabel  first  gave  heed  to  his  discourse,  he  was  talking 
with  my  father  about  the  wonders  of  the  divining  rod,  the 
Jannes  and  the  Jambres  of  old  and  modern  Egypt,  and  all  the 
other  faintly  dawning  marvels  of  mesmerism.  Amabel  listened 
in  amazement.  She  seemed  to  find  herself  transported  into  the 
wonderful  dream  life  of  her  childhood. 

From  Mesmer  and  his  "ism,"  the  discourse  branched  off  to 
the  subject  of  ancient  civilization,  a-propos  of  which,  my  father 
said  that  it  was  singular  so  many  names  out  of  the  Classical 
Dictionary  were  retained  in  Sandrock  and  its  neighborhood ; 
that  the  commonest  name  amongst  its  peasantry  was  Caesar, 
and  that  Darius,  Alexander,  and  Cyrus  flourished  largely  on  the 
shop  signs  of  the  neighboring  town. 

"  Your  name,  ma'am,"  said  the  passenger,  turning  to  Amabel, 
whom  Horace  addressed  always  by  her  Christian  name,  "  your 
name  is  a  singular  one." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  for  he  was  in  the  full  tide  of 
brilliant  and  successful  conversation,  encouraged,  as  I  have  said, 
by  the  wonder  and  delight  of  an  appreciative  auditory,  he 
went  on :  "I  never  heard  the  name  you  bear  but  once,  and 
then  it  was  trolled  day  and  night  by  a  French  colonel  of 
huzzars  to  the  burden  of  a  drinking  song.  I  was  coming  up 
in  the  year  '14  from  Marseilles  to  Paris,  in  the  coupe  of  the 
diligence,  when  he  joined  me.  He  was  particularly  curious  on 
the  subject  of  our  laws  of  divorce.  If  his  story  were  true,  he 
had  suffered  injuries  sufficiently  exasperating  from  a  captain  in 
our  navy,  and  was  coming  over  to  England  with  an  intention  of 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  363 

taking  his  revenge  by  seducing  his  enemy's  wife,  and  afterwards 
marrying  her,  the  case  involving  some  question  of  property 
which  he  wished  to  secure." 

Here  my  father,  with  more  zeal  than  sound  discretion, 
stamped  violently  on  the  toes  of  the  speaker,  who,  being  one  of 
those  rare  persons  who  can  receive  such  a  hint  without  break- 
ing short  off  in  their  sentence  with  confusion,  or  saying  in  an 
angry  whisper,  "  What  the  deuce  are  you  kicking  me  for  ?" — 
quietly  remarked  that  no  man  could  measure  the  lying  impu- 
dence of  Frenchmen  when  they  get  upon  the  subject  of  bonnes 
fortunes,  and  turned  the  conversation  to  the  wines  of  the 
south  of  France,  and  the  probability  of  a  change  of  ministry. 

He  got  out  of  the  coach  a  short  distance  from  Brighton. 
Theodosius,  when  he  had  left,  grew  very  fidgety.  On  entering 
the  town,  he  too  got  out  with  a  hurried  apology  to  Amabel, 
desiring  Horace  to  tell  their  aunt  that  he  had  pressing  business 
to  attend  to,  but  would  be  with  her  in  the  evening. 

In  a  few  moments  more  the  coach  stopped  on  the  Old 
Steyne.  The  door  of  their  new  home  was  thrown  open  by  a 
servant  in  blue  and  scarlet  livery,  and  Amabel  and  Horace 
found  themselves  in  the  hall  surrounded  by  their  carpet-bags 
and  boxes. 

"  This  way,  madam,"  said  the  servant,  ushering  them  into  a 
small  library.  An  elderly  lady  met  them  at  the  door.  There  was 
a  strange  mixture  of  courtliness  and  kindliness  in  her  reception. 
She  made  Amabel  a  funny  little  tripping  courtesy,  and  then 
kissed  her.  She  was  a  woman  about  sixty ;  with  still  a  pretty 
face,  though  her  figure  had  long  ceased  to  retain  any  propor- 
tion. On  the  top  of  her  grey  hair,  which  frizzled  over  her  brow 
in  all  directions,  she  had  mounted  a  wonderful  starched  cap ; 
her  gown  was  short,  and  showed  pretty  little  feet,  too  small  to 
support  her  frame,  and  she  rolled  in  her  walk  like  Jack  in  a 
gale  of  wind. 

"  Come  in,  my  dear — don't  stand  in  the  draught.  Bennett 
will  see  to  your  things.  Bennett  will  pay  all  there  is  to  pay. 
Bennett,  you  hear  me  ?" 

And  seizing  upon  Horace,  she  led  him  carefully  into  the 
room,  and  pushed  him  into  a  chair. 


364  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Why  don't  you  have  a  dog,  Horace,  to  lead  you  by  a  string  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  Aunt  Taylor,  I  have  no  taste  for  canine  ser- 
vices when  I  can  do  better,"  said  Horace,  laying  his  hand  on 
that  of  Amabel. 

"  I  think  you  can  get  safely  about  this  room,"  said  Miss  Tay- 
lor, looking  round  the  apartment,  which  was  certainly  very  "bare. 
"  I  had  all  the  tables  carried  off  before  you  came.  This  winter 
we  will  sit  here  instead  of  in  the  drawing-room,  because  of  my 
Dresden  china." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  need  be  afraid,"  said  Amabel.  "  I  never 
yet  saw  Horace  run  over  a  table  or  chair." 

"  Won't  you  take  off  your  bonnet,  my  dear  ?  Perhaps  you 
had  better  go  up  at  once  to  your  own  room.  I  hope  you  will 
like  it.  I  was  so  glad  you  consented  to  come  to  us." 

At  that  moment  a  pensive  fair-haired  girl  came  into  the 
library.  "  Katie,  come  here  and  hold  yourself  straight,"  said 
Miss  Taylor ;  "  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  this  lady.  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  troublesome.  Mrs.  Leonard — Miss  Catherine 
Warner." 

Miss  Taylor  did  not  see  the  start  of  her  governess,  nor  the  sud- 
den flush  that  mounted  to  her  face  ;  she  was  taking  Horace's 
hat  out  of  his  hand  and  otherwise  fussing  over  him.  Katie 
Warner,  who  had  timidly  approached  her  instructress  with  the 
intention  of  taking  her  hand,  chilled  by  receiving  no  reception, 
was  turning  away,  when  Amabel,  with  sudden  impulse,  threw 
her  arms  about  her,  drew  her  to  her  heart,  and  kissed  the  fair 
young  head  and  the  pale  forehead. 

Katie  looked  up  into  her  face,  and,  inspired  with  confidence 
by  what  she  saw,  returned  the  embrace  fervently. 

"  Take  Mrs.  Leonard  up  to  her  own  room,"  said  Miss  Taylor 
to  Katie  Warner.  "  I  did  not  wait  dinner  because  I  thought,  my 
dear,  you  would  like  a  beefsteak  with  your  tea.  You  must  be 
hungry,"  she  said,  ringing  the  bell  to  hurry  Bennett ;  "  Katie, 
take  Mrs.  Leonard  up  to  her  own  room,  and  see  the  fire 
burns,  and  ring  the  bell  for  Anne,  and  tell  her  to  attend  to  all  she 
wants,  and  make  yourself  of  use,  but  don't  annoy  her.  I  will 
stay  with  him,"  she  said,  in  an  aside  to  Amabel,  "  in  case  he 
should  want  anything." 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  365 

"  I 1  think  I  will  not  take  off  my  bonnet,"  said  Amabel, 

"  at  least  not  till  I  have  spoken  to  Mr.  Ord." 

"  Just  as  you  please  about  going  to  your  room,  but  take  your 
things  off  here.  You  cannot  want  to  drink  tea  in  your  bonnet. 
It  would  make  me  quite  uncomfortable.  I  want  to  see  you 
enjoy  your  tea,  my  dear.  Put  your  bonnet  on  the  table.  Oh ! 
I  forgot ;  there  is  no  table.  Bennett,  take  her  things,  and  put 
them  in  the  hall.  I  think  you  had  much  better  see  if  you  like 
your  room.  It  has  a  southern  aspect.  I  want  you  to  see  if  it 
suits  you.  Katie,  show  Mrs.  Leonard  her  room,  you  know." 

Thus  adjured,  Amabel  went  up  the  stairs,  passing  her  arm 
round  the  waist  of  her  step-daughter.  For  this  one  hour,  till 
Theodosius  Ord's  return,  she  might  enjoy  the  happiness  of 
being  near  her.  Then  she  must  launch  forth  again  on  the 
dark,  stormy,  troubled  waves  of  life,  leaving  this  friendly 
shelter.  She  could  not  stay,  of  course,  as  governess  to  Katie 
Warner. 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  the  room  with  preparations  for  her 
comfort ;  the  cheerful  fire  burning,  the  bed  turned  down. 

"  Let  me  go  into  Mr.  Vane's  room,"  she  whispered  to  Katie. 
"  I  have  his  keys,  and  we  will  unpack  his  portmanteau." 

Katie  noticed  that,  as  her  governess  knelt  before  the  trunk, 
her  tears  fell  fast  upon  the  linen.  Katie  had  a  kind  heart,  and 
had  herself  known  trouble. 

"  That  woman  could  not  be  of  nature's  making-, 
Who,  being  kind,  her  misery  made  not  kinder." 

She  stole  up  to  Amabel  and  gave  her  a  kiss. 

"  My  child — my  precious  child,"  said  Amabel,  fairly  over- 
come ;  and  closing  the  portmanteau,  she  seated  herself  before  it, 
and  drew  Katie  to  her  side. 

"Tell  me  something  of  yourself,"  said  she. 

"I  do  not  know  that  there  is  much  to  t'l',"  said  the  young 
girl,  "  except  that  I  have  never  had  a  home  like  other  girls, 
and  nobody  has  ever  seemed  to  be  much  interested  about  me. 
Sometimes  I  think  of  the  old  song : 

'  I  care  for  nobody,  no,  not  I, 
For  nobody  cares  for  u:e," 


366  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

and  I  think  that  is  my  case  too.  Won't  you  be  kind  to  me, 
and  try  if  you  can  love  me  ?" 

Receiving  Amabel's  caress,  given  without  reply,  Katie  War- 
ner went  on.  "  I  have  not  seen  my  papa  for  three  long  years, 
and  scarcely  saw  him  for  several  years  before.  He  came  back 
from  sea,  and  married  a  second  time.  My  own  mamma  died 
when  I  was  very  young — and  poor  papa's  new  wife  turned 
out  so  ill,  and  made  him  so  unhappy.  I  do  not  believe  he  will 
ever  return  to  live  in  England,  and  we  have  no  fixed  home.  I 
have  only  seen,  twice  in  these  three  years,  my  brother.  Don't 
you  think,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  "  it  was  very  unjust  and 
cruel  of  the  girls  at  school  to  taunt  and  twit  me  about  that 
bad  wife  of  my  father  ?  I  only  saw  her  two  or  three  times. 
I  did  not  even  live  in  her  house.  She  was  not  my  own  mamma, 
you  know.  But  whenever  they  got  angry,  or  when  I  was 
naughty,  every  one  would  say  that  I  took  after  her.  I  am 
sure  I  would  not  be  like  her,  Mrs.  Leonard,  for  the  world,  and 
grieve  papa.  I  suppose  we  shall  be  richer  now  that  grand- 
mamma is  dead,  and  papa  has  got  his  property,"  said  Katie, 
continuing  her  confidence ;  "  but  papa  has  never  been  rich 
before.  He  wrote  word  to  my  mistress  that  I  must  never  be 
extravagant,  as  he  had  little  more  than  his  half  pay.  All  the 
girls  were  rich,  and  my  gowns  used  to  get  so  bad.  I  had  no 
one  to  look  after  me.  I  try  to  make  them  last  as  long  as  they 
can.  I  try  not  to  wish  for  new  ones.  What  is  the  matter, 
Mrs.  Leonard,  are  you  ill  ?" 

"  Nothing,  my  child."  She  remembered  that  the  money  of 
which  this  forlorn  child  had  felt  the  want,  had,  by  her  hus- 
band's generosity,  been  given  up  to  her.  Her  punishment  was 
greater  than  she  could  bear. 

"  Let  me  get  you  some  sal  volatile"  said  Kate.  "  Aunt 
Taylor  takes  lots  of  sal  volatile." 

"  No,  nothing  of  that  kind.     Sit  down  and  tell  me  more." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell — only  my  school  life  was  unhappy. 
The  girls  did  not  like  me  much,  they  said  I  was  so  sensitive 
and  childish ;  and  the  teachers  did  not  like  my  wearing  such 
old  clothes.  When  grandmamma  died,  papa  wrote  to  Aunt 
Taylor,  and  she  came  the  other  day,  and  brought  me  here. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  367 

I  shall  love  you  very  much.  I  mean  to  do  my  very  best.  I 
do  really." 

"  And  suppose  that  I  must  leave  you  ?" 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  go  back  again  to  school.  She  said 
so  the  other  day.  Dear  Mrs.  Leonard,  I  am  sure  you  won't  do 
that !  You  will  try  how  I  behave  a  little  while.  She  said  if 
I  did  not  please  you  I  should  have  to  go  to  school  again.'r 

Amabel  had  a  little  turquoise  ring  upon  her  finger.  It  had 
been  a  first  love  gift  from  Felix.  She  drew  it  off,  and  put  it 
upon  Katie's  hand.  "  Wear  that  always  for  my  sake,"  she 
said,  "  and  never  think,  dear  child,  that  no  one  loves  you." 

"  If  you  please,  ladies,  tea,"  said  the  footman. 

"  Katie,  my  love,  unpack  this  trunk  to-morrow  for  poor 
Horace,  and  be  kind  to  him.  He  will  love  you,  and  your 
cousin,  Mr.  Ord,  will  love  you.  Every  one  will  love  you,  if 
you  show  them  love." 

So  saying  they  went  down  into  the  library,  where  Amabel 
gently  bnt  decidedly  took  Horace  out  of  good  Miss  Taylor's 
hands.  She  ate  little  herself,  but  busied  herself  with  him  ;  yet 
all  she  did  was  so  quietly  done,  that  you  might  have  drunk  tea 
many  times  in  their  company  without  noticing  that  he  was 
blind,  and  that  she  was  waiting  on  him. 

After  the  meal  was  cleared  away,  Miss  Taylor  and  Amabel 
sat  down  to  backgammon. 

"  It  is  a  real  treat  to  me,  my  dear,  to  find  that  you  can  play," 
said  the  old  lady,  as  the  clock  struck  ten,  closing  the  backgam- 
mon board.  "  To-morrow  night  I  will  give  you  your  revenge. 
I  wonder  where  Do.  Ord  is  ? — I  want  to  thank  him,  my  dear, 
for  bringing  you.  Ring  the  bell  for  the  servants,  Katie.  My 
dear,  it  would  save  my  old  eyes  very  much,  if  you  would  do 
me  the  favor  always  to  read  prayers." 

So  Amabel  read  in  the  chapter  of  Isaiah,  wherein  is  that 
verse,  "  Doubtless  thou  art  our  Father,  though  Abraham  be 
ignorant  of  us,  though  Israel  acknowledge  us  not — Thou,  O 
Lord,  art  our  Father,  our  guide,  our  redeemer,  from  everlast- 
ing." 

"  I  will  sit  up,  Miss  Taylor,  if  you  do  not  object,  till  Mr. 
Ord  comes  home." 


368  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  Better  go  to  bed,  my  dear.  Can  you  turn  out  the  lamp  ? 
Will  you  rake  out  the  fire  ?" 

"  Oh  !  certainly,"  said  Amabel. 

The  moment  all  the  party  were  gone,  and  she  had  given 
Katie  her  last  kiss,  her  last  promise  of  great  caution  to  Miss 
Taylor,  her  last  pressure  of  the  hand  to  Horace  Vane,  with  the 
feeling  on  her  mind,  that  when  they  woke  up  on  the  morrow 
she  would  be  no  longer  in  the  house,  and  that  her  brief  appear- 
ance there  would  seem  a  dream, — she  put  on  her  bonnet, 
cloak,  and  gloves,  and  sat  down  to  await  my  father's  arrival. 
About  eleven  o'clock  she  heard  his  knock.  He  had  taken  his 
candle  from  Bennett,  and  was  going  up  to  bed,  when  she  came 
out  of  the  library,  and  met  him. 

"  I  must  speak  to  you,"  she  said,  much  agitated.  "  Come  in 
here  a  minute,  Mr.  Ord.  Tell  me  why  you  brought  me  here  ? 
Why  did  you  make  me  feel  how  happy  I  could  have  been  in 
this  new  home — when  you  knew  I  could  not  stay  with  Katie 
Warner  ?" 

"  Do  you  object  to  the  poor  child  ?" 

"  Object ! — Oh,  no  !  It  would  have  been  my  greatest  hap- 
piness to  have  the  care  of  her.  But  Miss  Taylor  and  her 
father  never  would  consent.  I  ought  not  to  deceive  them. 
In  taking  any  other  situation  I  should  have  felt  myself  justified 
in  saying  nothing  of  my  past  life.  Here  it  is  different.  I 
cannot  stay.  Will  you  get  a  coach  at  once,  and  take  me  to 
some  lodging  ?" 

"  I  knew  it !"  cried  my  father.  "  A  man  never  can  do  any- 
thing to  suit  a  woman  ?  Here  have  I  been  walking  the  streets 
these  last  five  hours,  hoping  to  prevent  this  very  thing.  I 
knew  you  would  set  up  absurd  scruples." 

"  You  knew  that  my  pupil — the  pupil  you  always  professed 
to  know  nothing  about — was  Katie  Warner  !" 

"  I  thought,"  said  he,  going  on  without  answering  her  excla- 
mation, "  that  after  being  with  them  a  few  hours,  as  you  have 
been,  your  scruples  would  all  vanish.  Believe  me  they  are 
morbid.  What  harm  can  you  do  my  cousin  Kate  ? — what 
good  may  you  not  do  ?" 

"  Thou  shalt  not  do  evil  that  good  may  come,"  she  answered, 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  369 

gravely.  "  It  would  be  dishonorable  to  stay  here,  and  deceive 
Miss  Taylor.  You  know,  as  well  as  I,  she  would  not  let  me 
stay  if  she  knew  I  was  the  discarded  wife  of  Katie's  father." 

She  said  this  interrogatively. 

"  I  don't  know  any  such  absurdity,"  replied  my  father.  "  Go 
to  bed,  and  think  it  over.  Even  good  is  not  to  be  done  hastily. 
Staidness  is  of  God — haste  of  the  devil.  Saith  the  Prophet, 
'  it  is  better  not  to  go  to  Friday  prayers,  than  to  go  there  in  a 
hurry.' " 

"  You  will  not  turn  the  current  of  my  thoughts,"  she  said, 
"  by  any  gay  quotations.  If  I  sleep  under  this  roof  to-night, 
it  will  be  with  the  fullest  intention  of  quitting  it  in  the  morn- 
ingT 

Miss  Taylor  challenged  Amabel,  as  she  passed  her  door, 
with  "  Did  you  rake  out  the  fire  ?  Did  you  turn  the  lamp  out  2" 

"  I  left  Mr.  Ord  below,"  said  Amabel,  and  made  her  way 
hastily  to  her  own  chamber. 

Miss  Taylor,  having  the  highest  opinion  of  my  father's  care- 
lessness, and  indeed  of  the  untrustworthiness  of  all  his  sex 
with  whom  she  was  connected,  could  not  have  slept  a  wink 
without  examining  into  the  safety  of  her  ashes. 

Putting  a  cloak  over  her  dressing  gown,  and  arrayed  in  a 
wonderful  frilled  night  coif,  with  a  long  band  of  cambric  muslin 
and  lace  tied  round  the  crown,  which  gave  it  the  effect  of  a 
tiara,  she  came  down  stairs  to  the  library.  Her  nephew  stood 
before  the  grate  chewing  a  pen.  It  was  a  common  practice 
with  him  when  thoughtful  or  when  worried. 

"  Come,  Do. — go  to  bed.  Where  have  you  been  ?  I  want 
to  put  out  the  fire." 

"  Sit  down,  Aunt  Kate,"  said  he,  "  sit  down — there's  a  good 
soul !  I  want  to  have  some  talk  with  you." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  old  lady,  always  ready  for  a  chat,  "  I  am 
delighted — perfectly  delighted  with  Mrs.  Leonard,  I  assure 
you.  I  can't  thank  you  enough  for  having  induced  her  to  take 
this  situation.  She  has  the  prettiest  face,  and  the  prettiest 
ways " 

"  Then,  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you,  Aunt  Taylor,"  said  he, 
"  that  I  am  charged  by  her  to  say  that  you  need  not  think  she 

16* 


370  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

is  going  to  remain.  I  had  a  bard  matter  to  keep  her  here 
to-night,  and  she  will  certainly  be  off  to  town  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  Heaven  bless  us !"  cried  Miss  Taylor.  "  Why,  what  can 
we  have  done  ?  Bennett  and  Anne,  I  hope,  have  not  been  rude. 
Hav'n't  they  made  her  comfortable  ?  I  put  her  into  the  best 
bedroom.  I  told  you  to  offer  her  what  salary  you  would. 
Doesn't  she  like  Katie  Warner  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  my  father.  "  Yes — but  there's  the  rub.  You  see 
her  true  name  is  not  Leonard,"  said  he.  "  You  see  she  is — in 
short  it  is — she  is  Katie's  step-mother,  Mrs.  Leonard  Warner." 

"  Heaven  bless  us  !  Good  gracious  !  That  pretty,  modest, 
amiable,  young  thing  !"  cried  Miss  Taylor.  "  Go  along  with 
you,  Do.  Ord !  You  are  making  fun  of  your  old  aunt.  I  am 
not  going  to  believe  you." 

"  It's  true  enough.  I  have  known  it  for  some  months  past," 
said  my  father. 

"  If  you  knew  it,  what,  for  heaven's  sake,  did  you  recommend 
her  here  for  ?  And,  now  that  I  have  seen  her,  and  I  like  her, 
and  have  got  that  little  Warner  girl  from  school,  and  have  asked 
Horace  Vane  to  spend  the  winter — why  do  you  come  and  tell 
me  who  she  is  ?  Why  couldn't  you  keep  quiet  ?  What  do 
you  want  to  unsettle  me  for  ?" 

"  The  very  thing  I  told  her !"  exclaimed  he.  "  I  thought 
everything  would  have  gone  on  right,  unless  she  took  a  sudden 
fright  on  seeing  Katie  Warner.  She  not  only  has  been  falsely 
accused,  but  is  holy  as  the  stars,  and  as  pure  as  the  snow.  I 
thought  she  would  be  so  happy  here,  and  so  well  protected. 
That  when  Warner  came  back,  a  few  words  from  you  and 
me  would  set  things  between  them  all  taut  and  ataunto. 
But  she  insists,  as  she  says,  in  not  deceiving  you ;  so  to-morrow 
morning  she  is  going  off;  and  I  should  like  to  know  where  she 
is  to  go." 

"  Poor  thing — poor  pretty  young  thing !  She  will  go  on 
perhaps  from  bad  to  worse.  Suppose  I  send  Katie  away." 

"  But  she  is  not  bad,  Aunt  Kate,  I  tell  you.  It  is  not  a  ques- 
tion of  bad  or  of  worse.  Sit  down,  and  let  me  explain  to 
you " 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  371 

Good  heavens,  Do. !  what  shall  I  do  ?"  cried  Miss  Taylor, 
when  he  had  run  over  the  principal  points  of  Amabel's  story. 
"  I  am  so  sorry  for  her,  poor  dear.  I  cannot  let  her  go.  And 
what  ever  am  I  to  do  with  Horace  I  And  I  cannot  bear  to  send 
Katie  back  to  school.  She  is  so  very  sensitive.  What  is  to  be 
done  ?  Do.  Ord,  you  got  me  yourself  into  this  scrape  ;  it  is  for 
you  to  get  me  out — what  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Aunt  Kate,"  he  answered,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  make 
me  your  plenipo.  Give  me  full  powers.  Let  me  ask  her  in 
your  name  to  remain.  If  you  will,  I  think  I  can  arrange  it  for 
you." 

"I  wish  you  would.  I  had  rather  it  would  appear  as  if 
nothing  had  been  said  to  me,  you  know." 

"  Make  yourself  easy,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  my  father.  "  No 
word  upon  the  subject  ever  need  to  pass  between  you.  If  she 
does  not  agree  to  stay,  she  will  be  gone  by  daybreak " 

"  If  she  does  go  by  daybreak,  be  sure  that  the  front  door  is 
locked  after  you  leave  here,"  interrupted  Miss  Taylor.  "  Offer 
her  any  terms  if  she  will  stay,"  she  continued,  raking  out  the 
dead  coals  from  the  grate.  "She  suits  me  exactly.  But — 
why  she  is  almost  one  of  my  own  relations!  I  shall  never 
treat  her  right,  I  know." 

"  You  do  everything  just  right,"  exclaimed  my  father ;  "  you 
are  the  best,  and  kindest,  and  most  valuable  of  women.  A 
deal  too  good  for  any  one  man  to  have  had  you  to  himself." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Miss  Taylor,  with  a  sigh ;  "  and  you  don't  suppose 
Leonard  Warner  will  be  angry  with  me,  do  you  ?" 

The  next  morning  Amabel  was  awakened  by  a  maid,  who 
put  into  her  hand  the  following  communication  : — 

THKODOSIC8  TO  AMABEL. 

"  DEAR  MRS.  LEONARD  : 

"  My  aunt  and  I  have  had  an  interview ;  I  have  told  her 
everything.  Do  not  be  angry.  She  earnestly  entreats  you  to 
stay,  at  least  till  the  return  of  Captain  Warner.  She  offers  you 
your  own  terms,  and  is  only  afraid  she  shall  not  make  your 
new  home  agreeable.  It  will  be  an  imprudence  to  throw  your- 


372  AMABEL;  A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

self  upon  the  world,  when  such  a  home  is  offered  to  you. 
Make  us  all  happy  by  remaining  here — none  more  so  than 
"  Your  devoted  friend, 

«THEO.  ORD. 

"P.S. — My  aunt  will  send  Katie  to  school  if  you  wish. 
She  is  shy  about  having  any  conversation  with  you  upon 
affairs  of  your  own.  If  you  appear  at  breakfast,  she  will 
conclude  that  you  remain.  If  you  decide  to  go,  you  had  better 
get  away  at  once.  I  will  take  our  places  by  the  early  coach 
to  town." 

"  Is  there  an  answer,  ma'am,  for  Mr.  Ord,"  said  the  maid- 
servant ;  and  Amabel  replied,  "  there  is  no  answer." 

As  she  fell  back  on  her  pillow,  the  door  of  communication 
opened  between  her  room  and  that  of  Katie  Warner. 

"Did  you  dream  any  dreams?"  said  Katie,  coming  to  the 
side  of  her  bed. 

"  I  dreamed,  my  darling,  that  you  loved  me." 

"  Oh  P  said  she,  "  your  dreams  are  coming  true.  I  think  I 
shall  love  you  so  very  much,  Mrs.  Leonard — next  best  to  dear 
papa — and  the  memory  of  my  dead  mother." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Ob  !  how  and  by  what  means  may  I  contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  calls  thee  back  more  near  ; 

How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time  when  thou  art  here  1 

I'll  tell  thee.    For  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 

Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee 
In  worthy  deeds  each  moment  that  is  told, 

While  thou,  beloved  one,  art  far  from  me 

Mrs.  F.  KEMBLE,. 

BEHOLD  Amabel  installed  at  Brighton,  the  de  facto  mistress 
of  Miss  Taylor's  house  on  the  Old  Steyne.  Bennett  brought 
her  his  accounts.  She  was  Miss  Taylor's  right  hand,  and  her 
right  eye.  My  father,  Horace,  Katie,  and  Miss  Taylor  vied 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  373 

with  each  other  in  attempts  to  restore  her  health  and  make  her 
happy. 

At  the  riding-school  to  which  the  young  men  insisted  on 
taking  her  and  Katie  Warner,  she  was  distinguished  by  her 
beautiful  figure  on  horseback,  and  by  what  my  father  called  her 
"vaulting  ambition,"  her  extreme  anxiety  to  try  the  leaping 
bar.  She  remembered  having  seen  Miss  O'Byrne  take  a  wide 
ditch,  and  having  heard  her  husband's  "  bravo  1"  as  she  went 
gallantly  over. 

As  soon  as  she  and  Katie  had  acquired  some  knowledge  of 
equestrianism,  their  daily  rides  extended  beyond  the  saw-dust  of 
the  riding-school.  They  were  even  distinguished  by  the  notice 
of  George  "  the  Magnificent,"  who  was  at  that  time  sojourning 
in  the  midst  of  his  faithful  people  of  Brighton,  in  that  hideous 
Pavilion  his  taste  had  set  up. 

Amabel  rode  generally  with  Horace,  who  required  an  occa- 
sional "  To  the  right,  Horace,"  or  "  Pull  to  the  left,"  and  whose 
propensity  for  the  saddle  was  a  crook  in  the  lot  of  the  worthy 
Miss  Taylor. 

Early  one  brilliant  autumn  morning,  when  they  were  out  of 
sight  of  the  houses  of  the  town,  my  father  and  his  cousin  Kate 
rattled  up  behind  Amabel  and  Horace,  crying  out  as  they  flew 
by: 

"  Did  you  see  that  French  print,  yesterday,  on  the  Parade,  of 
two  people  kissing  on  horseback  ?  What  will  you  bet  us  that 
it  can't  be  done  ?" 

"  Mr.  Ord !  Katie  !  I  will  hear  of  no  such  thing !"  cried 
Amabel,  galloping  after  them. 

They  checked  their  horses  when  they  found  she  was  in  ear- 
nest. Katie  looked  extremely  frightened — all  her  bright  spirits 
sank  at  once,  and  Amabel  felt  she  must  be  cautious  in  reproving 
her. 

"  Mr.  Ord,"  she  said,  as  my  father  pulled  his  horse  up  at  her 
side,  "  I  thought  you  had  strict  notions  of  womanly  propriety  ; 
I  am  astonished  at  you  /" 

"  Yes ;  womanly  propriety,"  said  he.;  "  but  your  pupil  is  a 
mere  child — a  child  I  have  known  and  romped  with  all  her 
life — my  cousin,  too  !" 


374  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  If  she  were  your  own  sister,  I  should  disapprove  of  your 
kissing  her  on  horseback  on  the  Brighton  Downs ;  but  she  is 
not  even  your  first  cousin.  That  '  a  man  may  not  marry  his 
second  cousin,'  is,  I  believe,  no  fact  in  English  law." 

"  Ridiculous  !"  said  my  father.  "  The  child  is  a  mere  child. 
You  are  treating  the  whole  thing  as  if  she  were  a  woman." 

"  She  is  not  such  a  child  as  you  appear  to  think.  She  is  six- 
teen, I  assure  you." 

"  She  is  a  mere  passionless  little  school-girl.  Do  you  recog- 
nise no  difference  between  her  and  you  ?" 

At  that  moment  they  approached  nearer  to  the  brink  of  a 
dispute  than  they  had  ever  done  before,  or  than  they  ever  came 
again.  But  the  little  cloud  dispersed,  at  least  so  far  as  Ama- 
bel and  my  father  were  concerned.  It  seemed,  however,  to 
have  thrown  a  damp  over  the  gaiety  of  Katie.  Her  self-con- 
sciousness, and  extreme  dread  of  reproof,  which  had  been  lulled 
to  sleep  by  recent  kindness,  had  been  awakened  en  sursaut  by 
this  little  affair.  Her  education  seemed  to  have  been  hitherto 
directed  to  repressing,  rather  than  developing,  her  disposition  ; 
and  Amabel  regretted  having  checked  the  familiarity  with 
which  she  had  begun  to  treat  her  cousin,  since  in  pulling  up  a 
tare  she  seemed  to  have  been  rooting  out  the  wheat  also.  She 
had  more  pure  poetical  sensibility  than  Amabel,  who  chose  her 
favorite  poetry  for  the  high  thoughts  it  set  forth,  and  for  its 
tonic  effect  upon  her.  Katie  had  a  natural  sensibility  to  all  the 
influences  of  Nature.  She  delighted  in  the  verse  of  Mrs.  He- 
mans.  The  bent  of  her  nature  was  to  broodingness,  and  hidden 
feeling ;  that  of  Amabel  to  sympathy  and  action.  Katie  was 
passive,  pensive,  and  receptive ;  Amabel  diffusive,  energetic, 
and  naturally  gay.  Amabel  was  a  person  who  could  not  pass 
through  a  room  without  attracting  notice.  Katie,  who  required 
drawing  out,  might  be  overlooked  until  you  knew  her.  Her 
admiration  for  Amabel  was  unbounded,  and  her  step-mother 
fully  reciprocated  her  affection.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  them 
side  by  side ;  the  dark-haired,  bright-eyed,  energetic  mother 
looking  down  with  a  sort  of  tender  pride  upon  her  fair-haired, 
soft-eyed,  tender,  timid  child. 

Once,  when  Katie  was  speaking,  as  she  often  did,  of  the  second 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILT   HISTORY.  3*76 

marriage  and  the  misfortunes  of  her  father,  Amabel  ventured 
to  ask  her  step-mother's  maiden  name. 

"  She  was  French,  I  think  her  surname  was  Karnac.  Her 
Christian  name,"  said  Katie,  undoubtingly,  "  was  Isabelle." 

It  was  probably  the  strong  impression  that  had  been  enter- 
tained both  by  Theodosius  Ord  and  Katie  Warner,  that  the 
second  Mrs.  Warner  had  been  French,  that  saved  Amabel  from 
suspicion.  Nothing  about  her  bespoke  the  foreigner.  The  purity 
of  her  English  accent  was  quite  faultless,  though  there  was  a 
little  peculiarity  about  her  speech,  which  lent  to  what  she  said  a 
piquant  charm.  Her  association  with  the  peasantry  of  Hamp- 
shire had  given  to  her  mind  an  English  tone. 

Miss  Taylor  was  persuaded  by  Horace,  who  loved  Sandrock, 
to  pass  part  of  the  winter  at  his  farm,  and  shortly  before 
Christmas  the  whole  family  removed  there.  Dr.  Frost  told 
Amabel  he  was  delighted  to  get  back  his  curate.  She  went 
daily  through  the  parish,  accompanied  by  Katie,  who  never 
loved  her  more  sincerely  than  when  she  saw  her  the  ministering 
angel  of  the  needy  and  infirm. 

There  was  skating  for  fine  days  on  the  Heath  Ponds.  My 
father  made  an  ice  boat,  which  did  not  answer ;  but  its  con- 
struction and  its  failure  furnished  interest  and  much  amuse- 
ment to  the  party.  In  order  to  remedy  the  disappointment, 
my  father  and  Horace  fitted  up  what  they  called  a  chaise  glis 
sante,  in  which  Amabel,  Katie,  and  Miss  Taylor,  flew  swiftly 
over  the  ice,  to  their  own  great  delight,  and  that  of  the  «on- 
trivers. 

When  there  was  neither  snow  nor  ice  they  mounted  forest 
ponies,  and  gallopped  into  the  neighboring  market-town,  or 
scampered  over  the  moors. 

In-doors,  there  were  enormous  glowing  fires  of  peat,  and 
plenty  of  dispute  how  peat  fires  should  be  made.  The  ladies 
worked  in  worsted,  while  my  father  read  aloud  history,  poetry, 
and  Scott's  novels.  There  was  backgammon  in  the  evening, 
battledore  and  shuttlecock,  and  a  great  singing  of  glees  and 
madrigals.  Katie  was  found  to  have  a  sweet  soprano  voice ; 
and,  above  all,  there  was  plenty  of  laughter. 

In  the  month  of   March  my  father,  the  life  of  the  whole 


376  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

house,  went  up  to  town,  and  ten  days  after  he  had  left,  Miss 
Taylor  got  a  letter. 

"I  have  heard  from  "Warner,"  it  said,  "and  he  is  coming 
home.  He  wants  you  and  me,  Aunt  Kate,  to  run  down  before 
he  comes,  and  overhaul  the  Cedars.  If  you  leave  Sandrock  on 
this  errand,  do  not  mention  your  business  to  his  wife.  It  might 
distress  her  to  know  that  you  and  I  were  doing,  what,  under 
other  circumstances,  it  would  have  been  her  pride  and  pleasure 
to  have  done." 

Miss  Taylor,  the  next  day,  obeyed  the  call ;  and  while  she 
and  my  father  were  at  the  Cedars,  putting  aside  old  Mrs. 
Warner's  clothes  and  bonnets,  looking  over  her  strange  hoards, 
sorting  and  arranging  her  cabinets  of  papers,  and  getting  the 
house  into  habitable  array,  my  father  received  another  letter 
from  the  Captain,  dated  "  Off  Falmouth,"  directing  him  to 
come  at  once  to  Portsmouth,  and  join  him  there. 

Captain  Warner's  frigate  fell  in  with  an  outward-bound 
Indiaman,  somewhere  off  Cape  de  Verd.  As  the  sea  was 
very  calm,  and  the  day  fine,  a  boat  full  of  passengers  visited 
the  Magician. 

"  I  believe  a  relative  of  yours  is  come  on  board,  sir — Mr. 
Bevis,"  said  the  midshipman,  touching  his  hat  to  his  captain. 

"  Mr.  Bevis !"  said  the  Captain.  "  Bevis  !  I  never  heard 
the  name  even.  I  don't  know  such  a  man." 

"  I  understood  him  to  say,  sir,  he  was  your  relation." 

"  Point  him  out,"  said  the  Captain,  looking  down  through 
the  sky-light  into  his  own  cabin,  where  the  first  lieutenant  was 
dispensing  to  the  visitors  the  wine  and  ale  .of  hospitality. 

The  madeira  was  very  good — the  weather  very  warm.  Bevis 
had  been  pulling  an  oar  in  the  boat  that  brought  them  to  the 
Magician.  He  tossed  off  several  glasses,  and  partook  freely  of 
port  wine  sangaree.  He  was  very  merry,  free,  and  jovial, 
when  Captain  Warner  made  his  appearance  in  the  cabin.  He 
went  up  to  him,  with  a  free  and  easy  air,  saying,  "  I  believe, 
Captain,  you  don't  know  me.  I  have  just  married  a  half 
sister  of  your  wife.  Could  you  get  us  permission,  on  arriving 
at  St.  Helena,  to  see  General  Buonaparte  ?" 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  377 

"  Sir !"  said  the  Captain,  flushing  at  the  mention  of  her  \vho 
had  not  been  named  before  him  for  three  years ;  but  cooling 
down,  he  added,  more  calmly,  "  Can  you  tell  me  where  my 
wife  is  now,  sir  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  where  she  may  be  now,  for  old  Talbot  died 
the  week  before  we  left,  and  his  family  is  dispersed  in  all 
directions.  But  I  daresay  she  will  do,  Captain.  She  has  two 
zealous  young  men  who  will  look  after  her." 

"  Zealous  young  men,  sir  !" 

"Come,  Captain,"  said  Bevis,  with  rather  a  tipsy  laugh, 
"  you  can't  expect  a  deuced  pretty  woman,  left  alone,  to  go 
through  the  world  without  an  admirer.  /  wasted  a  little  time 
that  way.  But  Theodosius  Ord  and  Horace  Vane  are  the 
lucky  chaps  at  present ;  and  I  suspect,  from  what  I  know,  that 
their  admiration  has  cost  them  a  pretty  penny." 

"  Mr.  Bevis,"  shouted  the  mate  of  the  Indiaman,  who  was 
getting  his  party  into  their  boat.  "  Can  anybody  tell  me," 
said  he,  in  a  lower  voice,  "  if  that  fellow  will  be  fit  to  pull 
the  bow  oar  ?  He  took  too  many  pulls  at  this,"  pursued 
the  mate,  holding  up  the  brandy  flask,  and  shaking  it  at  his 
ear. 

Captain  Warner  crowded  all  sail  upon  his  ship,  he  walked 
the  deck  day  and  night,  he  grew  unpopular  among  his  crew, 
whom  he  kept  squaring  the  yards  and  pulling  at  the  braces. 
The  anxiety  he  suffered  seemed  to  revive  his  interest  in  Amabel. 
He  dreamed  about  her  when  he  slept ;  as  moonlight  shimmered 
on  the  shrouds,  he  seemed  to  see  her  form.  As  he  passed  Fal- 
mouth,  he  fell  in  with  a  pilot,  by  whose  boat  he  sent  ashore 
the  letter  received  by  my  father  at  the  Cedars,  directing  him 
to  come  and  join  him  at  Portsmouth. 

When  my  father  went  on  board  the  Magician,  having  tra- 
velled all  night  after  he  received  the  letter,  Captain  Warner 
met  him  at  the  gangway. 

"  Ord,"  said  he,  taking  him  into  his  cabin,  and  tapping  with 
his  finger  a  box  that  stood  upon  his  table,  "  I  have  been  prettv 
undecided  the  last  few  weeks,  whether  to  blow  my  own  brains 
out,  or  to  shoot  you.  I  have  heard  you  were  paying  attentions 
to  my  wife.  I  ask  you,  is  it  true  ?" 


3*78  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

My  father  was  completely  taken  aback.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  he  made  an  injudicious  answer.  "  Who  told  you 
so  ?"  said  he. 

"  Her  own  relation,  sir — a  Mr.  Bevis.  You  do  not  deny  it, 
sir  !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  to  my  face  that  it  is  so  ?"  cried 
Captain  Warner. 

"  I  deny  the  imputation  of  any  dishonorable  act,"  cried 
Theodosius ;  "  but  I  do  say  to  the  face  of  any  man  who  throws 
over  a  wife  as  virtuous  as  Mrs.  Warner — who  takes  from  her 
even  the  protection  of  his  name — who  exposes  her  to  be 
insulted  by  such  a  fellow  as  that  Bevis,  that  he  betrays  his 
trust,  and  almost  deserves  dishonor." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  without  equivocation — I  insist  on  know- 
ing, sir, — the  whole  of  what  you  know  of  her?" 

There  was  something  deadly  in  his  look,  as  he  again  laid  his 
hand  on  the  box  upon  his  table. 

"  There,  sir,  is  what  I  know,"  said  Theodosius,  throwing 
down  two  letters.  "  The  one  directed  to  me  is  from  Dr.  Glas- 
cock,  of  Malta,  the  guardian  of  her  youth,  and  her  best 
friend.  The  other  is  in  her  own  handwriting,  and  addressed 
to  you.  I  know  the  contents,  though  the  seals  are  yet  unbro- 
ken. She  has  told  me  what  she  wrote  to  you.  I  found  it  at 
the  Cedars  amongst  your  mother's  papers.  When  you  have 
read  both  letters,  if  you  wish  the  sequel  of  the  tale,  I  am 
ready  to  give  it  you." 

With  that  my  father  took  his  leave  of  Captain  Warner. 
The  Captain  sat  with  the  letters  before  him  for  some  mo- 
ments, looking  vaguely  at  their  directions  and  their  seals.  The 
one  found  at  the  Cedars  was  that  which  Amabel  had  written 
to  himself  three  years  before.  Little  had  she  expected,  when 
she  folded  it  with  kisses,  and  wondered  how,  where,  and  with 
what  feelings  he  would  open  it,  that  it  would  lie  by  three  years 
in  Mrs.  Warner's  secretaire,  and  afterwards  in  what  an  unpro- 
pitious  moment  he  would  break  the  seal. 

There  was  something  humiliating  to  Captain  Warner  in  the 
thought  of  being  bearded  by  a  man  who  half  acknowledged 
having  been  the  lover  of  his  wife  ;  in  being  reproached  by  him 
for  want  of  care  and  tenderness  to  one  towards  whom  his  heart 
had  been  beginning  to  relent. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  379 

His  life,  so  late,  and  sole  delight, 
Now  at  his  feet  submissive  in  distress, 
Creature  so  fair  his  reconcilement  seeking. 

He  began  to  read  her  letter  as  if  in  a  dream.  He  could  not 
fix  his  mind  upon  the  words,  and  indeed  he  was  called  off  con- 
tinually during  its  perusal.  It  seemed  to  him  the  officer  of  the 
deck  had  never  made  such  perpetual  reference  to  him  before. 

After  one  of  these  interruptions,  he  threw  her  letter  down 
and  took  up  that  of  the  Doctor.  It  was  the  narrative  from 
which  I  have  compiled  the  first  part  of  this  biography.  It  had 
been  written  purposely  to  prove  her  early  love  for  Felix,  and  to 
show,  as  Dr.  Glascock  said  himself,  that  "  that  wisdom  was  pro- 
phetic which  cautioned  her  to  avoid  all  connexion  with  a  country 
where  manners  and  opinions  not  conventional  were  misrepre- 
sented, misinterpreted,  and  misunderstood."  The  scornful, 
cynical  irony  of  Dr.  Glascock,  and  the  opinion  he  advanced 
against  her  marriage  with  an  Englishman,  operated  against  her 
in  the  Captain's  mind.  Theodosius  Ord  and  Dr.  Glascock — 
both  of  them  had  loved  her — was  he,  her  husband,  to  be  school- 
ed by  them  ?  Again  he  took  up  her  own  letter.  Its  self- 
reproach,  its  humility,  the  tenderness  of  its  appeals  began  to  pro- 
duce its  effect  upon  him.  She  did  not  seem  to  blame  him  for 
her  wrongs  as  much  as  others. 

"  Why  did  I  marry  her  ?"  he  asked  himself ;  "  the  flower 

that  has  withered  in  my  grasp  might  have  been  still  blooming. 
-Why  was  I  caught  by  a  mere  pretty  face  ?     Why  did  I  not 

place  in  marriage  a  sufficient  value  upon  judgment,  knowledge, 

and  experience — qualities  which  a  man  requires  in  the  woman 

who  is  to  bless  or  curse  his  home  ?" 

Did  the  Captain's  good  angel  whisper  softly  at  that  moment, 

"  But  she  is  yours,  for  you  have  married  her,  for  better,  for 

worse,  to  love  and  to  cherish.     Make  the  best  of  your  choice 

now  ?" 

Amabel's  account  of  the  child  moved  him.     Tears  gathered 

in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  upon  a  little  golden  curl  she  had  put 

into  her  letter. 

He  was  leaning  over  the  letter,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands, 

when  Captain  Annesley,  unannounced,  came  into  the  cabin. 


380  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Warner  ?"  said  this  friend  ; 
"  Have  you  had  a  letter  from  my  Lords  Commissioners  2  You 
look  as  if  you  were  digesting  a  rap  over  the  knuckles." 

"  No,"  said  Warner,  "  it  isn't  that  this  time.  It's— it's— it's 
my  wife.  Read  these  letters,  Annesley, — you  are  my  friend, — 
and  tell  me  what  I  am  to  think  of  her." 

Annesley  sat  down  by  the  table  of  the  cabin  ;  his  counte- 
nance was  that  of  a  man  prepared  to  look  gravely  into  a  sus- 
picious document.  He  was  as  much  a  man  of  judgment  as  his 
friend  a  man  of  feeling. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  all  ?"  said  Captain  Warner,  as  his 
friend  read  the  last  sheet  of  Amabel's  long  letter. 

"  I  think  it  a  very  able  letter,"  replied  Annesley.  "  She  says 
she  is  not  guilty.  I  never  thought  you  had  much  evidence 
against  her.  This  is  a  very  able  defence — a  very  well  written 
letter." 

"  A.irable  defence/  One  does  not  want  an  able  defence  from 
one's  wife,"  repeated  Captain  Warner. 

He  was  walking,  as  he  spoke,  up  and  down  his  narrow  cabin. 
He  knew  what  he /<?/£,  and  it  seemed  to  him  the  present  was  a 
case  of  feeling,  but  he  could  not  make  mere  feeling  act  on  the 
cool  judgment  of  Captain  Annesley. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  stopping  at  length,  "  I  feel  that  between 
us  there  was  always  something  wrong.  Upon  cool  judgment  I 
don't  think  now  that  she  actually  went  so  far  as  to  carry  on  an 
intrigue  with  that  Frenchman.  I  don't  think  she  had  time. 
But  I  think  she  might.  I  think  she  liked  him.  I  think  she 
cared  little  for  me  or  for  my  honor." 

Annesley  rapped  upon  the  table  with  his  nails,  and  pondered 
what  he  should  say  further.  At  length  he  resumed — 

"  My  opinion  is,  that  if  you  have  no  more  against  her  than 
your  own  suspicion,  you  are  a  fool  not  to  believe  her  own  ver- 
sion of  the  story.  A  man  is  more  respectable  living  decently 
with  his  wife,  than  quarrelling  with  her.  I  should  take  her 
back  and  keep  a  tight  hand  over  her." 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORT.  381 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  Alas  !  mid  she,  we  ne'er  can  be 
Made  happy  by  compulsion." — COLERIDGE. 

MY  father,  after  his  return  from  the  Magician,  went  to  his 
roora  at  the  Quebec  Hotel,  and  threw  himself  down  to  sleep, 
fatigued  by  his  night  travelling.  He  was  waked  up  about  one 
o'clock  in  the  day  by  a  shake.  Captain  Warner  was  standing 
over  him,  demanding  a  full  account  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Amabel. 

My  father  started  up,  and  began  to  give  a  rather  confused 
narrative  of  their  intercourse  and  intimacy.  So  eager  was  he 
to  make  an  impression  in  her  favor,  that  he  launched  freely 
into  indiscreet  eulogy,  which,  in  the  present  state  of  the  affair, 
greatly  increased  the  irritation  of  her  husband.  Each  vehe- 
ment word  thus  uttered  in  her  praise,  by  a  man  who  owned 
he  had  once  loved  her,  was  felt  by  Captain  Warner  as  a  per- 
sonal reproach. 

He  impatiently  interrupted  my  father. 

"  Where  is  she  now,  sir — can  you  tell  me  ?" 

And  he  stood  perfectly  sflent,  struck  dumb  with  surprise, 
while  my  father  explained  that  she  was  living  with  Miss  Taylor, 
as  governess  to  Katie  AVarner,  spoke  of  her  virtues  and  her 
loveliness,  of  the  affection  they  all  bore  her,  and  the  esteem 
in  which  she  was  held. 

"  And  her  child  1"  said  Captain  Warner,  recovering  himself 
at  length. 

"  Died  long  ago,"  replied  my  father. 

"  Poor  Belle  !"  said  the  Captain  (it  was  years  since,  even  in 
his  heart,  he  had  called  his  wife  poor  Belle),  "  she  seemed  so 
very  fond  of  it — I  am  sorry  for  her." 

"  The  London  coach  is  ready,"  said  my  father,  taking  advan- 
tage of  his  softness.  "  Do  you  wish  to  go  to  her  at  once  ? 
They  are  all  at  the  Hill  Farm.  Shall  I  get  places  to  Farn- 
ham  ?" 


AMABEL;  A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

The-e  were  but  two  vacancies  upon  the  coach,  one  in  front 
and  one  behind ;  so  that  my  father  and  his  companion  were 
separated  during  the  journey,  probably  to  the  great  relief  of 
both. 

At  Farnhanr  they  took  a  chaise.  It  was  early  spring,  but 
intensely  cold.  "  Too  cold  for  snow,"  the  landlord  of  the  Bush 
thought,  when  his  opinion  was  asked;  but  they  had  hardly 
reached  the  top  of  the  first  hill  beyond  the  town,  when 
large  thick  flakes  began  to  fall,  and  soon  the  moorland  on  all 
sides  of  them  was  deep  in  snow.  A  snowy  sky  hung  low  over 
the  landscape.  The  postillion  and  his  horses  bent  down  their 
heads  to  break  the  force  of  the  wind,  which  blew  piercing  and 
sharp — a  true  snow  wind — over  the  common. 

When  they  came  near  to  the  gate  of  the  Hill  Farm,  at 
the  spot  where  the  pine  grove  runs  into  the  avenue,  they 
caught  sight  of  a  woman  taking  shelter  under  a  tree. 

"  That  is  Katie  !"  cried  my  father. 

Captain  Warner,  recognising  his  daughter,  stopped  the  car- 
riage and  sprang  out.  She  knew  him  at  once,  and  flew  into 
his  arms. 

"  How  came  you  here  alone,  my  child,  in  all  this  snow  ?" 
said  he. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Leonard  ?"  cried  my  father. 

"Mrs.  Leonard  sent  me  out  of  the  way,  cousin  Do."  said 
she,  with  an  arch  look  at  her  cousin.  "  I  don't  believe  she 
observed  a  storm  was  coming.  There  is  a  visitor  in  the 
drawing-room.  Such  a  tall  Frenchman  !  She  has  sent  me 
out  till  his  visit  is  over." 

"For  God's  sake,  cousin  Katie,  be  careful  what  you  say," 
he  cried,  vainly  endeavoring  to  stop  her. 

Katie  was  an  enfant  terrible  to  my  father.  Ever  since  she 
had  again  become  familiar  with  him,  after  the  Brighton  kissing 
affair,  she  had  delighted  to  tease  him  about  his  supposed  par- 
tiality for  Amabel.  It  proved  that  she,  Katie,  had  no  interest 
in  his  attentions. 

"  It  is  terrible  to  you,  no  doubt,"  she  answered,  laughing 
archly,  and  clinging  to  the  arm  of  her  father,  "  to  know  that 
she  is  closeted  with  a  French  officer." 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  383 

She  felt  her  father  tremble  as  she  spoke,  and  saw  his  clouded 
brow. 

"  Oh  !  don't  be  angry,  dear  papa,"  she  said.  "  I  was  only 
teasing  my  cousin.  You  don't  know  how  devoted  he  has 
always  been  to  Mrs.  Leonard.  I  wanted  to  make  him  jealous, 
papa." 

"  For  God's  sake,  hold  your  tongue,"  said  Theodosius,  in  a 
fierce  and  angry  whisper. 

They  had  by  this  time  come  within  sight  of  the  house.  A 
chaise  was  standing  at  the  door,  a  spectral  chaise  well  sprinkled 
with  fresh  snow,  which  was  falling  very  thickly.  As  they 
entered  the  hall,  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  was  opened  in 
their  faces,  and  Amabel  came  out,  with  a  tall  man  leaning  on 
a  stick,  feeble  and  decrepid.  Captain  Warner  hardly  recog- 
nised his  wife — but  the  man  at  her  side  he  knew  at  once — it 
was  Ferdinand  Guiscard. 

Colonel  Guiscard,  the  moment  he  saw  Captain  Warner,  made 
a  step  back  into  the  room  he  had  just  left,  tore  in  halves  a 
paper  on  the  table,  and  flung  the  fragments  on  the  glowing 
bed  of  the  peat  fire. 

Amabel  saw  all  was  lost  from  the  moment  she  looked  into 
the  set  face  of  her  husband.  Excuse  or  explanation  she  saw 
would  not  avail  her.  Her  courage  rose  with  hopelessness, — 
she  feared  no  longer  for  herself,  but  was  anxious  to  prevent 
collision.  She  checked  the  exclamation  that  was  rising  to  her 
lips,  and  fearing,  from  a  sudden  movement  of  the  Captain, 
that  he  was  about  to  offer  some  indignity  to  Col.  Guiscard, 
she  placed  herself  between  them,  standing  in  the  doorway, 
with  one  hand  on  the  lintel. 

"  Do  not  strike  him,"  she  said.  "  He  saved  your  child's 
life  once.  You  are  revenged  on  him  enough.  Your  shot  made 
him  a  cripple." 

Captain  Warner  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  the 
great-coat  he  wore  over  his  uniform. 

"  It  is  over  !"  he  cried,  turning  away.  "  It  is  oyer  !  Oh  ! 
my  God !" 

Amabel  made  a  hurried  sign  to  Theodosius  to  get  Colonel 


384  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORT. 

Guiscard  into  his  carriage.  She  flew  to  the  side  of  her 
husband,  but  he  motioned  her  away.  She  saw  it  was  of  no 
use  to  humble  herself  before  him.  She  recovered  her  self-pos- 
session, and  paused,  pale  and  speechless,  supporting  herself  by 
the  side  of  the  drawing-room  door. 

"  Give  us  an  explanation,  for  God's  sake,"  cried  my  father, 
coming  back. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  explanation  ?"  she  replied.  "  I  have 
lived  for  years  hoping  for  this  moment.  I  have  labored  to 
advance  it — it  has  kept  me  alive.  It  is  not  now  as  when 
we  parted.  I  am  worthy  of  his  confidence — and  you  know 
it !  I  have  earned  the  right  to  be  trusted  and  believed.  Is 
this  mere  circumstance — beyond  my  own  control  .  .  .  ' 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  bent  her  head,  covering  her  eyes 
with  her  hand  ;  saying,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !"  "  Leonard,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause,  "  will  you  believe  the  explanation  I  can  give 
you  of  this  scene — or  treat  it  like  the  letter  that  I  wrote  you  by 
the  bedside  of  our  child  ?  Did  you  believe  that  letter  ?" 

Katie  Warner,  who  had  just  begun  to  comprehend  the 
scene,  was  clinging  round  her  father's  neck,  crying,  "  Speak 
kindly  to  her — comfort  her !  She  is  so  good — so  good — deal*, 
dear  papa !" 

"  This  is  no  place  for  you,  my  child,"  he  said ;  and  starting 
up,  rushed  out  of  the  door.  In  a  few  moments  he  came 
back. 

"  The  chaise  has  left.  Give  me  my  hat,"  he  said.  "  I  shall 
walk  to  Faruham." 

"  Mrs.  Leonard,  rouse  yourself !  It  is  not  yet  too  late," 
exclaimed  my  father. 

"  Too  late  ?  Too  late  for  what !  Is  it  for  happiness  ?"  she 
cried.  "  It  is  too  late  for  that — too  late  !" 

She  seemed  bewildered  by  the  sudden  blow.  But,  as  Cap- 
tain Warner  again  opened  the  front  door,  admitting  a  fierce 
gust  of  wind  and  snow,  she  seemed  to  recover  her  recollec- 
tion. 

"  Hear  me,  Captain  Warner,"  she  said,  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  her  voice  which  arrested  his  steps  and  commanded  his 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  385 

attention  ;  "  We  are  now  separated  for  ever.  I  would  not  now 
resign  my  liberty  to  the  man  who  neither  trusts  me  nor  believes 
me.  But  for  the  sake  of  the  friends  who  are  made  unhappy 
by  all  this,  who  have  loved  me,  sheltered,  trusted  me,  I  speak ! 
If  you  have  read  my  letter  you  know  the  circumstances  that 
occurred  before  we  parted."  The  captain  made  a  slight  sign  with 
his  head.  "  I  can  add  nothing  whatever  to  what  I  wrote  you 
then,  and  from  that  statement  I  take  nothing  away.  I  have 
never  had  any  sentiment  but  strong  dislike  towards  the  man 
whom  you  found  here.  I  have  never,  since  the  moment  that 
you  left,  seen  him — heard  news  of  him — or  wished  ever  to  see, 
ever  to  hear.  It  seems,  however,  that  for  some  time  past, 
spurred  by  remorse,  he  has  been  in  search  of  me.  I  do  not 
understand,"  said  she,  piteously,  "  how  he  came  to  find  me  out 
in  this  retreat.  You  remember,  Mr.  Ord,  that  literary  man 
who  made  himself  so  pleasant  in  the  coach  when  we  were 
going  on  to  Brighton  ?  He  says  he  heard  from  him  that  I 
was  here.  That  man  mentioned,  you  remember,  having  for- 
merly known  him.  They  met  again  in  Loudon,  the  other 
day.  You  remember  the  conversation,  Mr.  Ord,  about  the 
name  of  Amabel.  How  could  that  conversation  have  betrayed 
me?" 

"  It  was  my  fault — my  fault,"  cried  my  father.  "  I  trod  on 
his  toes.  Fool  that  I  was — I  have  ruined  you  !" 

"  This  man,  when  he  found  Colonel  Guiscard  had  come  to 
England  in  search  for  me,  made  no  scruple  in  putting  him 
upon  my  track.  He  went  to  Brighton,  found  out  I  was  here, 

arrived   at  F last  night,  and   to-day  came  over  to  see 

me.  You  see,"  she  continued,  turning  to  my  father,  and 
glancing  at  her  dress,  which  showed  unusual  care,  "  I  had  read 
of  the  arrival  of  the  Magician.  I  was  sure  you  would  go  at 
once  to  Captain  Warner.  I  expected  you  to-day.  When  they 
told  me  I  was  wanted  by  a  gentleman,  I  made  sure  that  it  was 
my  husband.  I  sent  Katie  out  of  the  wray ;  I  could  not.  let  her 
be  present  when  I  met  her  father.  What  1  felt  when  I  disco- 
vered who  it  was — when  I  had  to  meet  that  bad  man  without 
witnesses,  knowing  that  you  Theodosius,  and  Miss  Taylor,  and 
even  Horace  were  away — need  not  be  spokeu '" 

17 


386  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  "Where  is  Horace  ?"  cried  my  father.     "  How  came  he  to 


'"Horace  has  gone  to-day  over  to  the  Holt,  to  see  the  Ran- 
ger-" 

"You  were  going  on  to  tell  us  what  the  Frenchman  said 
to  you,"  prompted  my  father — not  liking  the  pause  she  made 
after  the  last  sentence,  or  the  forgetful,  dreamy  look  in  her 
eyes. 

"  True,"  she  replied,  starting,  as  if  his  question  had  roused 
her.  "  He  had  been  visited  by  remorse,  he  told  me,  for  his  con- 
duct, and  desired  my  forgiveness,  which  I  freely  gave  him.  He 
brought  me  a  deed  too,  s  aying  that  he  load  not  probably 
very  long  to  live — and  by  this  deed  I  should  become  possessed 
of  all  the  property  of  his  brother  in  Brittany.  Could  I  touch 
that  money f  she  said,  turning  to  her  husband.  "Would 
you  have  had  me  take  it  ?  Even  though  your  generosity  to  me 
has  made  you  poor ; — though  I  should  have  brought  something 
thereby  to  the  common  purse  in  the  event  of  our  reconci- 
liation— something  that  might  have  been  settled  on  your  child- 
ren  " 

She  looked  with  piteous  eyes  into  his  face,  but  there  saw  no 
relenting. 

"  Qui  s'ejccuse — s'accwse,"  said  he.  It  was  about  the  only 
quotation  that  he  used  to  employ.  To  him  it  was  very  conve- 
nient, lu  him  the  perceptive,  not  the  reasoning  powers,  were 
acute.  He  could  not  be  touched  by  an  argument.  All  expla- 
nations, exculpations,  and  reasonings  in  self-defence,  he  called 
excuses. 

"  He  does  not  believe  me.  I  knew  he  would  not,"  she  said, 
to  Theodosius, who  stood  by.  "I  told  you  so." 

Captain  Warner  opened  the  front  door,  and  went  out  into 
the  storm. 

"  Follow  him,"  cried  Amabel  to  my  father.    "  He  cannot  walk 

to  F through  all  this  snow.     Tell  him  I  am  going.     I 

shall  pass  the  night  at  the  Cottage.     All  is  over." 

My  father  obeyed  her.  She  went  up  stairs,  put  on  her 
shawl  and  bonnet,  and  wrapped  her  husband's  old  blue  camlet 
cloak  about  her,  almost  covering  her  head. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  38*7 

As  she  made  these  preparations,  the  expression  of  her  face 
\vas  strangely  fixed.  Katie  crept  into  her  room.  She  was 
crying  bitterly. 

"  Mamma — mamma,"  she  said,  pressing  close  to  her.  "  Do 
you  not  love  mej  Why  do  you  smile  ?' 

"  Because  I  cannot  help  it,  Katie,"  said  Amabel,  sitting  down, 
with  a  sort  of  laugh.  "  My  child,  I  want  my  self-command, 
or  I  should  be  hysterical." 

"  Mamma,  why  is  your  bonnet  on  ?  Do  not  go — you  are 
not  fit  to  go,"  said  Katie  Warner,  removing  her  bonnet  from 
her  head. 

"  I  must  be  growing  very  wicked,"  said  Amabel,  at  length. 
"  I  do  not  realize  these  events.  I  do  not  feel  sorry  to  give  you 
up,  my  child.  I  don't  feel  sorrow  for  myself,  or  for  your  father. 
I  don't  feel  at  all.  Oh  !  Katie,  it  is  dreadful !" 

"  Mamma,  I  shall  put  you  to  bed,"  said  Katie,  feeling  that 
while  her  step-mother's  hand  and  cheek  were  burning  hot,  her 
whole  frame  shook  with  a  sudden  shiver. 

"  Where  is  your  father  ?"  she  resumed,  when,  having  drunk 
a  glass  of  water,  she  felt  somewhat  more  composed. 

"  I  see  papa,"  said  Katie,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
"  walking  up  and  down  the  avenue  with  cousin  Do." 

"  Katie,"  said  Amabel,  "  when  I  am  gone  I  commit  your 
father  and  both  your  cousins  to  your  care.  Your  cousin,  Mr. 
Orel,  will,  perhaps,  reproach  himself  for  this  affair.  Some  day, 
if  you  find  he  blames  himself,  show  him  this,  dear — it  is  my 
last  message,"  she  said,  opening  a  Bible  she  had  taken  up  to 
carry  with  her  in  her  hand.  "  I  can't  find  it,"  she  said  piteously, 
vaguely  turning  over  the  leaves.  "  You  must  find  it,  dear.  It 
is  that  passage,  in  which  Joseph  tells  his  brethren  that  what 
had  happened  was  the  will  of  God,  and  not  their  fault.  And 
oh !  Katie,  my  sweet  daughter,  be  a  good  child  to  your  father. 
Pity  him,  my  darling ; — remember  that  his  home  is  desolate. 
He  has  no  mother — no  wife.  Do  not  injure  your  influence,  by 
taking  what  you  may  fancy  is  my  side.  But,  if  a  softer  mood 
should  ever  come,  tell  him,  dear  Katie,  I  would  have  died  to 
win  him  back  again."  Her  voice  seemed  to  die  away  into  a 
sigh.  "  I  love  him — I  hardly  know  how  this  lovo  of  mine  was 


388  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY 

born — from  pity,  self-reproach,  admiration,  perhaps  from  grati- 
tude. They  say  the  love  of  an  Englishwoman  springs  most  often 
from  gratitude — ask  your  father,  in  that  day,  to  let  you  see  my 
letter.  Before  God,  every  word  is  true  in  that  letter.  I  was  a 
careless,  an  impatient,  an  unloving  wife,  but  nothing  worse — 
not  worse,  dear." 

So  saying,  she  held  out  her  arms  to  the  young  girl,  who 
weeping,  threw  herself  upon  her  breast.  For  several  minutes, 
Amabel  held  her  in  her  arms,  stroking  back  the  smooth,  bright 
hair  from  her  fair  brow,  and  covering  it  with  kisses. 

She  went  out  of  the  house  by  the  back  gate.  The  pelting 
of  the  pitiless  storm  was  on  her  head,  She  skirted  the  pine 
grove,  and  gained  the  by-road  that  led  her  by  the  mill-stream. 

Drenched  from  head  to  foot,  but  insensible  to  physical  pain, 
she  reached  the  cottage,  entering  her  old  home  by  the  path  at 
the  foot  of  the  garden. 

"  Lad  a  massy  !"  cried  the  Widow  Csesar,  who  kept  the 
empty  house,  when  she  came  in  by  the  back  door. 

"  Don't  say  anything,"  said  Amabel.  "  Get  me  ready  a  bed, 
and  a  cup  of  hot  tea,  if  you  have  any." 

"  What  is  that,  Mrs.  Caesar  ?  What  can  be  coming  next  ?" 
she  cried,  as  a  few  moments  after  the  bell  of  the  front  gate 
rang  with  sudden  clamor. 

"  It's  a  post-chay  and  a  gentleman,"  said  the  widow,  coming 
back.  "  They  got  on  to  the  heath,  and  a'most  lost  their  way. 
He  is  took  ill,  and  the  boy  is  bringing  him  in.  He  is  e'en 
a'most  dead.  He  might  ha'  took  him  into  Sandrock  to  the  inn, 
but  this  was  the  first  tenement." 

"  Let  him  in — ask  him  in,"  said  Amabel,  standing  up.  "  He 
is  welcome — oh  !  extraordinarily  welcome,  I  am  sure,  to-day." 

The  post-boy  was  bringing  in  meanwhile  the  insensible  and 
crippled  form  of  Col.  Guiscard,  seized,  as  Mrs.  Csesar  saw  at 
once  by  a  twist  in  his  face,  with  a  sudden  stroke  of  palsy. 

She  gave  him,  however,  only  a  sudden  glance.  She  was 
more  intent  on  watching  the  wild  strange  look  of  Amabel. 

"  Dear  heart — what  is  it  ?"  exclaimed  she.  "  Surely  you're 
not  a  going  to  be  tooken  ill  with  a  fever." 

"  I  passed   over  the  mill-stream,"  replied  Amabel.     "  The 


I 
AMABEL;   A  FAMILY  HISTORY.  389 

waters  tossing,  foaming,  gurgling,  rushed  under  the  bridge. 
The  mill  wheel  was  whirring.  I  believe  I  have  got  all  these 
together  in  my  head." 

"  Sit  down.  Sit  down  and  rest  ye ;  and  I'll  make  your  dish 
of  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Caesar.  But  Amabel  drew  her  cloak  over 
her  head,  went  out  to  the  gate,  and  spoke  to  the  post-boy. 

"  Have  you  ever  a  barn  where  I  could  put  my  'osses  up  ?"  he 
said,  addressing  her. 

"  Put  them  to  again,"  said  Amabel,  getting  into  the  chaise, 
and  drawing  ottt  her  purse.  "  Light  your  lamps  and  drive  me 
into  Farnham." 

"  I  couldn't  no  how,  ma'am,"  said  the  post-boy.  • "  It  is  such 
a  night  of  weather." 

"  Drive  to  the  Doctor's.  I  must  send  him  help,"  she  said, 

paying  no  heed.  "  When  we  get  to  F you  shall  have 

this — I  have  plenty  of  money." 

The-post  boy  saw  gold  through  her  silk  netting. 

"  Perhaps  I  could  ride  on  horseback  and  get  through  ?"  said 
he,  "  Charley,  here,  is  the  better  'oss  of  the  two.  But  Lord 
bless  you,  ma'am,  you  wouldn't  get  the  Doctor  !" 

"  If  you  refuse  to  drive  me,  .1  must  walk,"  said  Amabel. 

The  post-boy,  bribed  by  her  tempting  gold,  and  shamed  by 
her  determination,  put  up  the  steps  and  closed  the  carriage 
door.  It  took  him  some  time  to  fix  into  his  lamps  two  little 
bits  of  candle  ends ;  then  drawing  his  cap  over  his  face,  and 
beating  his  numb  arms  across  his  breast,  he  prepared  to  face 
the  storm. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

God  be  •with  thee,  my  beloved — God  be  with  thee, 

Else  alone  thou  goest  forth, 

Thy  face  unto  the  north, 
Moor  and  pleasance  all  around  thee  and  beneath  thee, 

Looking  equal  in  one  snow. 

The  Valediction. — MRS.  BROWNING. 

HER  faculties  were  benumbed.     They  had  been  overstrained. 
A  mist  hung  over  her  understanding. 


390  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

The  carriage  rocked  and  trembled  along  the  rutty  road. 
The  fierce  north  wind  blew  hail  and  snow  against  the  glass. 
She  sat  with  one  hand  covering  her  eyes.  All  sorts  of  scenes, 
and  scraps  of  personal  dramatic  action — passages  of  her  youth, 
events  that  had  been,  or  that  might  have  been,  went  surging 
through  her  fancy.  Attractive  fragments  of  autobiography 
arranged  themselves  in  her  mind.  She  was  amused  and 
interested,  as  she  might  have  been  by  the  perusal  of  a  story. 
Everything  about  her  seemed  unreal.  Her  spirit  had  passed 
into  Kilmeny's  "  land  of  vision." 

By-and-by,  after  severe  jolting,  the  carriage  came  suddenly 
to  a  stand. .  She  heard  the  post-boy  shouting  aloud.  It  was 
the  first  thing  she  had  noticed  since  her  journey  had  begun. 
He  cracked  his  whip ;  the  horses  floundered  in  a  deep  drift  of 
snow ;  the  chaise  trembled  and  shook,  then  turned  over  on 
its  side. 

On  creeping  out  of  the  window  she  found  the  horses  up  to 
their  breasts  in  the  snow.  The  chaise  had  wandered  from  the 
road,  had  got  into  a  kind  of  hollow  to  the  right  of  the  high- 
road that  leads  to  F ,  and  had  come  suddenly  up 

against  a  fence  which  parted  a  small  cultivated  oasis  from  the 
moor.  Across  the  snow  the  faint  few  lights  of  the  town  at 
midnight  were  gleaming  in  the  distance,  blurred  and  misty 
through  the  snowy  haze.  The  storm  beat  more  terribly  than 
ever,  the  wind  rushing  with  wild  fury  and  fierce  strength 
over  the  open  moor. 

The  postillion  was  benumbed,  terrified  by  the  storm,  and 
alarmed  about  his  cattle.  One  horse  lay  exhausted,  half  buried 
in  the  snow-drift ;  the  other  kicked  and  floundered  as  the  boy 
attempted  to  detach  him  from  the  carriage. 

Amabel  stood  by,  watching  the  scene,  as  though  it  were  a 
spectacle  got  up  to  amuse  her. 

"  I  am  going  on,"  she  said,  at  length,  putting  into  the  post- 
boy's hand  a  piece  of  gold,  which  he  transferred  to  his  mouth. 

"  There  ought  to  be  a  house  down  yonder,"  said  he,  pointing 
with  his  thumb  into  the  hollow.  "  If  you  get  to  it,  please  to 
send  me  help.  I'm  a'most  froze,  and  Charley  here,  I  think,  is 
gone.  What  ever  will  master  say  to  me  !" 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  391 

His  mind  was  taken  up  by  the  situation  of  his  horses,  and 
he  paid  little  attention  to  the  probability  of  her  being  able  to 
reach  the  house  through  the  darkness  and  the  storm. 

She  drew  her  cloak  around  her,  faced  the  full  force  of  the 
wind,  and  disappeared  into  the  blackness.  The  snow  that  had 
fallen  was  moist,  light,  and  feathery.  At  every  step  she  sank 
up  to  her  knees.  Constantly  stumbling,  constantly  rising,  she 
pressed  on.  She  crossed  the  fence,  which  caused  the  drift  by 
which  the  carriage  had  been  stopped,  and  found  herself  descend- 
ing into  a  kind  of  valley.  She  heard  the  rush  of  running  water, 
and  followed  the  sound,  until  she  found  herself  beside  the  little 

stream  which  flows  by  F ,  and  by  her  home  at  Sandrock. 

She  struggled  along  its  banks,  for  some  distance  down  the 
stream,  seeking  for  a  bridge.  The  snow  was  less  deep  by  the 
river-side  than  it  had  been  upon  the  common.  She  paused, 
weary  and  spent,  spread  her  cloak  upon  the  snow,  and  sat 
down  to  rest  upon  it.  Her  clothes  were  wringing  wet.  She 
took  off  her  bonnet  and  her  gloves,  and  laid  them  down  beside 
her.  She  watched  the  snow-flakes  whitening  her  cloak,  and 
powdering  her  hair.  "  Madame  la  Vierge  file  sa  quenouillej 
she  said,  repeating  a  poetical  Bretonism  for  a  snow-storm  ;  and 
she  laughed.  A  strange,  wild,  tuneless  laugh,  which  the  wind 
bore  away  over  the  moor  so  fast,  that  she  could  scarcely  catch 
the  strangeness  of  the  sound. 

She  started  up.  "  I  must  push  on,"  she  cried,  "  and  yet  I  am 
so  weary.  I  have  strange  pains  in  my  limbs — a  ringing  sound 
of  bells  is  in  my  head.  And  yet  my  head  seems  clearer  than 
it  did.  Suppose  I  sing."  And  her  former  reflection  about  the 
distaff  of  the  Virgin  having  probably  put  Brittany  into  her 
mind,  she  began  to  sing  a  low,  sad  ballad,  taught  her  by  poor 
Felix,  or  rather  the  French  imitation  of  a  guerz,  still  heard  in 
Upper  Brittany. 

Oh  !  dites  moi,  ma  mere,  ma  mie 
Pourquoi  les  varints*  sonnent  ainsi  ? 

Ma  fille  on  fait  la  procession 

Tout  a  1'entour  de  la  inaison. 
Oh '  dites  moi,  ma  mere,  ma  mie 
Quel  habit  mettrai-je  aujourd'hui  t 

•Bell.. 


392  AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY. 

Prenez  du  noir — prenez  du  blauc — 

Mais  le  noir  est  plus  convenant. 
Oh  .  dites  moi,  ma  mere,  ma  mie 
Pour  qui  la  terre  est  rafraichie? 

Je  lie  puis  plus  vous  le  cacher, 

Votre  mari  est  enterrfe. 

Again — again — again  the  notes  and  words  of  this  sad  plaint 
rang  out  upon  the  blast.  She  was  hurrying  on,  seeming  to 
think  that,  if  she  stopped  singing,  her  strength  would  fail. 
She  had  found  a  little  bridge  which  crossed  the  stream.  She 
was  now  upon  a  road  somewhat  sheltered  by  hedges.  She  was 
bareheaded — her  bonnet  and  cloak  having  been  left  lying  on 
the  spot  where  she  had  paused  to  rest.  In  one  of  the  many 
falls  which  bruised  and  jarred  her,  but  from  which  she  conti- 
nued to  rise  and  to  push  on  with  unshaken  resolution,  the 
comb  had  fallen  from  her  head.  Every  fierce  gust  of  the  wild 
wind  set  her  hair  streaming,  and  she  was  forced  at  every  step 
to  stop  and  put  it  from  her  eyes. 

Again  she  was  beyond  the  friendly  shelter  of  a  hedge,  and 

on  the  open  moor.  The  lights  of  F were  gleaming  far 

behind.  Struggling  with  the  wind,  and  singing  as  she  went, 
she  pressed  on  across  the  heath.  She  had  fallen  in  with 
no  sign  of  any  human  dwelling.  Every  now  and  then  came 
a  lull  in  the  storm — a  silence  more  terrific  than  its  fury. 
Amabel  knew  that  the  wind  was  gathering  up  its  strength ;  she 
staggered  as  the  spirit  of  the  storm  flew  past,  or,  stooping  down, 
she  met  its  buffet  kneeling  on  the  snow.  There  were  no  rocks, 
nor  hills,  nor  walls,  to  echo  back  the  roaring  of  the  tempest.  It 
seemed  to  sweep  alone  under  the  leaden  sky,  over  the  open  moor. 

The  last  song  she  had  sung  was  a  Breton  Hymn  on  Hell ; — 
Dantesque  and  terrible,  probably  the  work  of  some  young 
Celtic  David,  keeping  sheep  upon  a  Breton  moor.  I  will  give 
it  in  a  translation  : — 

Hearken,  sinners,  can  ye  teli 
Aught  of  such  a  place  as  hell  ? 
Tis  a  furnace  where  the  (lame 
Roarcth  day  and  night  the  same; 
And  the  lime-kiln's  fiercest  breath, 
Which  to  near  is  certain  death, 
When  its  glowing  flag-stones  swell, 
Is  but  smoke  to  flames  of  hell ! 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   BISTORT.  393 

There  no  light  will  gleam  for  ever — 
Fire  burueth  like  a  fever. 
There  no  hope  will  enter  more, 
God  Himself  hath  barred  the  door. 
Fire  will  your  footsteps  bound ! 
Fire  rages  all  around. 
Hungry  sinner,  eat  the  fire ! 
Or,  if  water  you  desire, 
O'er  yon  river's  burning  bed 
Brimstone  flows, — and  molten  lead '. 

Weeping  through  Eternity, 
All  your  tears  will  make  a  sea  , 
But  that  sea,  howe'er  it  swell, 
Will  not  make  a  drop  in  hell. 
Tears  shall  never  quench  hell-fire. 
Tears  will  make  it  mount  the  higher  ; 
You  will  hear,  more  loud  than  groans, 
The  marrow  bubbling  in  your  bones. 

From  its  trunk  your  head  they'll  sever, 
Yet  you'll  have  to  live  for  ever! 
Devils  ranged  in  rival  bands 
Toss  it  to  each  other's  hands, — 
While  immortal  you  stand  by, 
For  in  hell  you  cannot  die  ! 
They  shall  roast  your  body  whole 
Till  you  feel  it  turn  to  coal ; 
And  .this  fearful  torment  o'er 
You  shall  live  to  suffer  more  ! 


The  song  was  cruel,  fierce,  Celtic,  and  material,  but  full  of  a 
wild  power.  It  seemed  to  suit  her  frenzied  state  of  mind.  The 
storm,  her  suffering,  the  fever  in  her  brain,  incited  her  to  sing 
it  again  and  again.  She  sang  it  with  fierce  energy — her  voice 
rising,  in  some  notes,  louder  than  the  storm. 

Suddenly  she  shrieked.  A  flame — it  seemed  to  her  the 
flames  of  hell — shot  up  almost  at  her  feet.  She  felt  the  air 
around  her  growing  hot. 

The  wind  ceased,  or  rather  flew  by  her,  without  seizing  her 
each  time  in  its  wild  grasp.  She  was  under  the  lee  of  some 
wall  that  protected  her. 

Fire  again  shot  out.  She  heard  the  rumble  of  a  roaring 
flame ; — she  felt  a  hot  breath  on  her  face.  Again  she  shrieked 
wildly — loudly — in  frenzy.  Her  voice  was  this  time  louder 
than  the  tumult  of  the  storm. 

"  'Tis  a  furnace  where  the  flame 
Roareth  day  and  night  the  same  ; 

17* 


894  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

And  the  lime-kiln's  fiercest  breath, 
Which  to  near  is  certain  death, 
When  its  glowing  flagstones  swell, 
Is  but  smoke  to  flames  of  hell  !" 

Faintly  she  tried  to  sing  these  words  again.  She  turned  to 
fly.  Forth,  forth,  forth  into  the  void  of  night — into  the  face 
of  the  wind — into  the  strong  grasp  of  the  storm.  Anywhere — 
anywhere  to  be  beyond  the  light  of  that  fierce,  shooting  flame, 
beyond  the  furnace  blast  of  that  mysterious  fire  ! 

As  she  strove  to  rush  back  on  the  heath,  and  to  escape,  she 
struck  her  hand.  The  wall  she  touched  was  burning.  The 
side  of  her  hand  was  blistered  and  smarting  with  pain.  She 
shrieked  again — she  struggled,  and  fell  senseless  on  a  bed  of 
heated  ashes. 

********* 

Two  men  came  out  with  lanterns.  They  were  rude  men, 
who  gained  their  bread  by  making  brick. 

Their  brick-kilns  and  their  hut  are  still  standing.  You  may 
see  them  any  day  in  the  midst  of  the  great  heath,  a  mile  or 
two  from  Farnborough. 

One  of  them  protested  he  had  heard  a  woman's  shriek. 
The  other,  after  a  brief  survey  of  the  glowing  kiln,  declared 
it  was  all  stuff".  "  Bill  had  dreamed  a  bad  dream,  and  heard 
the  howling  of  the  tempest  through  the  out-houses." 

As  he  said  this,  he  stumbled  over  the  heap  of  spent  ashes 
thrown  out  from  the  kiln  the  day  before,  and  cried  out,  "  'Ees — 
bring  us  the  light,  Bill.  'Ere  she  be  now." 

Bill  came  up  to  the  spot,  and  the  two  men  stood  looking  at 
her. 

"  An'  what  can  us  do  wi'  such  a  thing  as  she  2"  asked  the 
elder  man  of  Bill,  contemptuously  stirring  her  with  his  foot  at 
the  same  time. 

"I'm  just  no  sure,"  said  Bill,  as  he  turned  her  over,  and 
drew  out  the  long  wet  hair  that  was  wrapped  round  her. 
"  I'm  just  no  sure  that  she  beant  a  mad  'ooman  scaped  out  o' 
t'  Asylum." 

"May  be,"  said  the  other,  his  eye  catching  sight  of  her 
•watch  and  chain.  "Bring  her  in  to  th'  ould  'ooman,  Bill. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  395 

"  She'll  keep  her  safe  till  called  for,  let  her  be  as  mad  as 
Bedlam.  May  be  there'll  be  a  bit  of  a  reward  offered. 
Here's  a  bit  o'  th'  kiln  is  started,  and  the  flame  is  coming  out 
o'  t'  side.  Lord  !  Lord !  Bill,  what  a  night !" 


END    OF   THE   THIRD    FART* 


Loved  wilt  thou  be '    Then  Love  by  thee  must  first  be  given  ; 
No  purchase  money  else  avails  beneath  the  heaven. 

R.  C.  TBENCH.— Century  of  Couplet* 


PART    IV. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Trust  no  Future  howe'er  pleasant, 

Let  the  dead  past  bury  their  dead  ; 
Act — act  in  the  living  Present, 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'er  head. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

HORACE    TO    AMABEL. 

Hill  Farm,  July  26,  1820. 

You  must  not  be  displeased  with  me,  my  dearest  friend,  for  the 
earnest  desire  that  impels  me  to  address  you.  Yet,  having 
prepared  to  write,  I  know  not  how  to  begin.  Last  night,  as  I 
lay  awake,  my  whole  soul  seemed  to  pour  itself  out  in  an 
imaginary  letter;  'to-day  I  experience  that  embarrassment 
which  springs  from  fulness  of  the  heart — an  embarrassment 
which  hinders  vigorous  statement  in  speech,  and  holds  the  pen 
suspended  over  the  letter. 

Why — ah !  why,  dearest  Amabel,  did  that  vile  man  come 
to  this  place  ?  I  do  not  understand  why  God  has  given  an 
accident  such  power ! 

The  ways  of  Providence  are  very  dark.  I  can  understand 
why  trial  came  to  you  at  first,  in  those  old  days  when  nothing 
had  developed  the  woman's  soul  within  you.  It  was  good  for 
you  to  be  afflicted  then — but  now,  Amabel — now,  what  is  the 
use  of  any  further  disappointment  ? 

Why  could  not  Providence  have  made  you  happy  your  own 
way  ?  Surely,  in  the  language  of  the  Holy  Book,  you  have 
been  "  purified,  and  made  white,  and  tried."  In  your  face 
glows,  they  tell  me,  all  the  "  beauty  of  holiness" — the  sound 
of  your  voice  brings  the  blessing  of  peace. 

We  were  sitting  yesterday  at  breakfast  in  the  cool  west 


400  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

parlor.  Katie,  Miss  Taylor,  my  new  tutor,  and  I.  Katie  has 
taken  your  place  as  president  of  the  table.  It  is  beautiful  to  see 
her  walking  in  your  steps — conforming  to  that  ideal  image  of 
womanly  perfection  that  she  has  seen  in  you,  speaking  cheerful 
words  when  I  know  that  her  young  heart  is  sad,  and  keeping 
up  her  own  spirits  that  she  may  sustain  those  of  others. 

As  Katie  was  presiding  over  the  breakfast  tray,  engaging,  or 
endeavoring  to  engage,  the  rest  of  us  in  conversation,  the  door 
flew  open,  and  your  old  friend  Dr.  Frost  almost  rushed  into 
the  room.  Katie  says  his  flaxen  wig  was  all  awry,  and  only 
half  the  buttons  of  his  trim  black  gaiters  fastened.  Never  had 
the  venerable  man  been  seen  abroad  in  such  a  state  of 
deshabille  before.  He  had  walked  up  the  hill  so  very  fast  that 
he  came  in  panting.  He  made  no  reply  to  our  exclamations 
of  surprise,  but  began  shaking  hands  all  round.  I  knew,  from 
the  jolly  pressure  of  his  fat  old  palm,  that  he  was  the  bearer  of 
good  news. 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is  ?"  said  he.   "  Be  prepared 

I  have  got  a  letter.     She  is  alive,  and  in  London." 

"  Oh  !  Doctor  Frost,"  cried  Katie,  with  a  little  scream ;  and, 
springing  up  from  where  she  sat,  she  threw'  her  arm  round  his 
old  neck  in  her  caressing  way,  and  made  him  show  her  your 
letter. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  joy  those  few  brief  lines  con- 
veyed !  But  why  were  they  so  brief?  Do  you  mistrust  our 
confidence  and  affection  ? 

•  I  can  almost  write  your  letter  in  one  line.  "  Dear  Sir,  Will 
you  cause  any  personal  effects  I  may  have  left  behind  to 
be  forwarded  from  Sandrock  to  the  inclosed  direction." 

Where  have  you  been  ? — How  came  you  in  town  ? — How 
have  we  failed  to  discover  you  ? 

Ah  !  had  you  seen  poor  Katie  rush  up  stairs  and  tear  off  all 
her  mourning ! 

The  trunks  forwarded  in  obedience  to  your  note  have  been 
packed  by  her  own  hands.  She  bids  me  tell  you,  with  the 
assurance  of  her  love,  that  if  not  your  child  by  birth,  she  will 
be  your  child  in  spirit.  That  if  she  can  but  live  in  the  resolu- 
tions she  has  made  her  life  will  owe  you  its  complexion.  She 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY  HISTORY.  401 

says  you  will  find  your  desk  gone  and  many  of  your  papers. 
They  are  in  the  possession  of  her  father. 

On  the  evening  of  that  dreadful  day  when  you  left  Sandrock, 
while  I  was  still  detained  by  the  great  storm  at  the  house 
of  the  Ranger,  Captain  Warner  and  Theodosius,  I  am  told, 
remained  walking  till  night-fall  up  and  down  the  avenue. 
They  appear  to  have  been  kept  from  freezing  by  excitement. 
When  they  came  in  Theodosius  joined  his  cousin  Katie  in  the 
parlor,  while  Captain  Warner  went  straight  to  his  room. 
Theodosius  carried  him  a  cup  of  tea  later  in  the  evening,  and 
found  him  gone  to  bed. 

"  You  had  better  say  to  her,"  said  he,  "  that  I  shall  go  away 
as  soon  as  the  storm  is  past,  and  take  my  daughter.  Tell  her 
I  shall  provide  for  her.  I  hope  to  do  everything  reasonable, — 
but  I  never  want  to  see  her  face  again."  "  She  is  gone,  sir," 
said  Theodosius.  "  Gone  !  Where  the  devil  is  she  gone  to 
in  this  storm  !"  cried  Capt.  Warner.  "  Gone  to  the  Cottage, 
sir,"  said  Do.  "  Heavens  and  earth,  sir  !"  cried  the  Captain, 
"  do  you  call  it  like  a  man — do  you  call  it  humanity — to  drive 
a  woman  out  on  such  a  night  to  seek  for  shelter  in  an  empty 
hovel !  One  would  think  I  was  a  tyrant — a  barbarian — that 
it  were  better  to  fly  from  me  and  brave  the  elements.  I  am 
not  aware  I  ever  gave  her  cause  to  look  on  me  in  that  light. 
We  might  have  been  happy  in  our  married  life,  if  people  had 
not  put  themselves  between  me  and  her." 

At  th£ff  moment  a  fearful  blast  of  wind  and  sleet  struck  the 
loose  casement.^  "  By  heavens,"  cried  the  Captain,  "  I  will  not 
stand  this  any  more.  A  woman  is  a  woman,  and  ought  to  be 
treated  as  a  woman — which  I  know,  if  you  do  not,  sir.  If  no 
one  else  will  go  to-night  and  see  if  she  is  safe — I  shall,  sir !" 

"  While  she  was  under  my  care,"  he  continued,  "  I  never 
suffered  the  winds  of  heaven  to  visit  her  cheek  too  roughly. 
She  hardly  would  venture  her  foot  upon  the  ground  for  deli- 
cateness  and  tenderness.  Now  see,  what  she  has  come  to  under 
your  advice — and  such  as  yours — to  be  turned  out  on  such  a 
night  as  this  like  a  dog.  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  Who 
would  have  believed  it  ?  A  tender  and  delicate  young  creature 
led  astray  by  evil  counsellors  !  When  I  married  her,  sir,  she 


402  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

was  like  a  tender,  loving  little  fawn,  and  after  a  few  weeks  she 
grew  cold,  constrained,  and  anxious.  It  was  the  bad  advice  of 
people  like  yourself,  who  called  themselves  her  friends — teach- 
ing her  to  live  in  dread  of  her  own  husband,  who — I  vow  to 
heaven ! — would  have  laid  his  life  down  at  her  feet.  Ail  I 
wanted  of  her  was  to  be,  and  to  seem  happy.  Instead  of 
which  she  grieved  and  pined,  and  quarrelled  with  my  relatives, 
and  had  her  heart  still  set  on  an  old  foolish  love,  and  got  her 
reputation  blasted  by  this  Guiscard.  And  now  that  years  have 
passed,  you  see  to-night  an  epitome  of  the  same  story.  No, 
sir,  I  am  not  like  the  Royal  Family  of  France,  who  have 
'  nothing  remembered,  nothing  forgot,'  during  their  years  of 
emigration." 

The  next  day,  by  early  dawn,  the  Captain  was  on  foot — not 
earlier,  however,  than  Theodosius  Ord  bound  on  the  same 
errand.  It  had  left  off  snowing,  and  they  met  each  other  in 
the  avenue,  each  steering  his  course  towards  the  Cottage. 
When  they  reached  it,  Theodosius  went  alone  into  the  kitchen, 
and  there  learned  from  Mrs.  Caesar  that  Col.  Guiscard  lay 

dying  in  the  house,  and  that  you  had  gone  over  to  F ,  in 

the  fore-part  of  the  night,  during  the  height  of  the  storm. 

Mrs.  Caesar  followed  him  out  to  the  gate,  declaring  "  that 
the  dear  lady  could  never,  she  was  sure,  have  got  alive  that 
night  across  the  heath, — many  and  many  a  man  and  horse  had 
perished  on  less  dreadful  nights  upon  the  pathless  moor." 

"Which  is  the  road — which  is  the  road?" — was  all  that 
Captain  Warner  could  exclaim,  on  hearing  her  opinion.  Both 
he  and  Theodosius  had  long  poles,  torn  fronr^a  hop-field,  in 
their  hands,  to  sound  the  snow-drifts,  and  at  every  step  each 
sank  into  the  wet  snow  up  to  his  knees.  They  pushed  their 
way  about  a  mile  across  the  heath,  and  then  turned  back  to 
get  the  help  of  our  farm  laborers. 

Katie  wanted  to  serve  them  with  hot  coffee,  but  the  Captain 
would  take  nothing.  He  asked  her  for  brandy,  which  she  put 
into  pocket-flasks  for  all  the  party.  The  men  trudged  first — 
stout  farming  men  accustomed  to  the  road.  They  did  more  in 
half  an  hour,  with  half  the  exertion,  than  Theo.  and  Captain 
Warner  had  been  able  to  accomplish  in  double  the  time, 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  403 

hindered  as  they  were  by  agitation  and  excitement.  The  men 
pushed  on  in  single  file,  taking  turns  to  lead  the  party,  keeping 
a  bold  front,  but  failing  to  beat  a  path — the  snow  being  so  wet 
that  there  was  no  crust,  and  at  every  step,  iu  American  phrase, 
"  they  slumped" — that  is,  broke  through. 

When  they  had  reached  Fox  Hill,  and  were  almost  into 

F ,  they  saw  a  party  of  men  on  the  heath  to  the  right, 

gathered  round  some  object  in  the  distance,  which  Theodosius's 
quick  eye  made  out  to  be  a  broken  carriage.  They  made  their 
way  across  the  common  to  the  spot,  and  there  found  the  chaise 
of  the  Bush  Inn.  The  post-boy  had  passed  the  night  at  the 
cabin,  in  the  midst  of  a  little  oasis,  which  Katie  says  you  will 
remember  to  the  righ*  of  Fox  Hill  by  the  run.  When  they 
found  that  he  could  give  them  no  account  of  you,  Captain 
Warner  gave  up  hope — but  his  despair  of  success  redoubled 
his  exertions.  Those  assembled  round  the  carriage  quitted  it 
at  once  to  join  his  search,  while  three  or  four  persons  were 

sent  off  to  F to  inquire  for  you.  It  was  soon  ascertained 

that  you  had  not  been  there.  Theodosius  says  your  husband's 
agitation  was  terrible  to  witness ;  there  was  a  sort  of  reckless 
energy  in  his  search,  which  led  him  hither  and  thither, 
sounding  the  snow  wherever  any  ridge  or  drift  appeared  to 
indicate  a  body.  He  said  not  a  word  to  any  of  the  men,  but 
shook  his  head  hopelessly  as  he  turned  over  the  snow.  Once 
or  twice  they  heard  him  saying,  with  a  groan,  "  Oh  !  my  poor 
wife ! — oh  !  my  poor  Bella  !" 

One  of  the  men  discerned  a  faint  red  stain  beside  the  river. 
He  fancied  it  was  blood.  One  of  the  party  directed  your  hus- 
band's attention  to  some  other  place,  while  Theodosius  and  the 
rest  went  down  to  examine  it.  The  bloody  tinge  they  had 
observed  was  the  scarlet  lining  of  your  cloak  shining  through 
the  snow.  They  disinterred  the  cloak,  and  found  your  bonnet 
and  gloves.  The  inference  was,  that  you  were  in  the  river. 
WThile  the  men,  full  of  horror,  were  gathered  round  the  spot, 

some  proposing  to  set  off  to  F ,  to  procure  means  to 

drag  the  river,  or  to  the  nearest  farm  to  fill  a  cart  with  straw 
and  bring  it  to  the  spot  that  it  might  be  in  readiness ;  discuss- 
ing the  probable  manner  of  your  death,  whether  by  suicide  or 


404  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

accident,  as  with  their  poles  they  sounded  the  river  at  its  brink  ; 
they  forgot  to  conceal  the  agitation  of  their  movements  from 
Captain  Warner.  He  discovered  that  something  had  been 
found — he  overheard  the  words,  "  a  cart  to  take  the  body." 
He  hurried  to  the  spot,  insisting  on  his  right  to  receive  you. 
"  She  is  my  wife,"  cried  he.  "  They  made  her  fancy  I  was 
cruel.  Her  fear  of  me  has  killed  her !  Give  her  to  me,"  he 
cried,  throwing  open  his  bosom  ;  "  let  me  hold  her."  It  was 
long  before  they  could  convince  him  that  they  had  not  found 
your  corpse.  They  laid  your  cloak  upon  his  arm  ;  he  recog- 
nised it,  and  was  overcome.  Theodosius  kept  near  him,  reso- 
lute and  active,  and,  to  all  appearance,  calm ;  but  Johnny  Cob- 
bett  told  me  that  he  was  pale  as  marble.  By-and-by  the  cap- 
tain's strength  began  to  fail,  and,  while  they  dragged  the  river, 
he  sat  down  upon  the  snow.  The  activity  and  bustle  of  the 
men  employed  seemed  to  jar  upon  his  feelings.  When  drag- 
ging the  river  proved  of  no  use,  parties  went  over  the  heath 
towards  Moor-park  to  look  for  you  in  that  direction.  They 
made  wild,  impossible  surmises — some  even  fancied  you  might 
have  found  your  way  into  one  of  the  caves  upon  that  property, 
which  were  hiding-places  during  the  civil  war,  and  the  retreat, 
as  you  may  remember,  some  years  since  of  a  poor  madman. 
One  man  was  a  good  deal  hurt  in  trying  to  get  up  a  cliff  to  the 
entrance  of  one  of  them.  They  sent  one  of  their  number  back 
to  the  hill-farm  to  bring  your  dogs,  but  their  scent  failed  to 
trace  you. 

Later  in  the  day  they  brought  the  captain  home  again.  I 
had  then  returned  from  my  visit  to  the  Ranger.  Theodosius 
said  it  was  a  touching  sight  to  see  poor  little  Katie  rush  into 
his  arms,  and  lay  her  head  upon  his  breast,  while  he  rested  his 
cheek  upon  it,  and  wept  over  her.  They  sat  a  long  time 
clasped  in  each  other's  arms.  The  first  words  he  said  were, 
"  My  child,  you  must  get  the  deepest  mourning." 

"  Oh !  papa — papa,"  she  cried,  "  she  is  not  gone !  Oh,  dear 
papa,  I  loved  her  so  !" 

Theodosius  came  up  to  me.  "  She  is  gone,  Horace,"  said  he. 
"  We  will  mourn  her  together." 

Amabel !  it  is  not  for  me  to  tell  of  manly  tears  wept  for  your 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  405 

fate — of  choking  sobs  which,  in  the  silence  of  long  nights,  each 
stifled  in  his  pillow.  How  each  sought  to  bear  his  grief  apart? 
and  to  subtract  his  share  out  of  the  common  sorrow.  How  we 
sat  down  to  meals  where  nothing  could  be  eaten,  but  at  which 
we  all  appeared,  each  hoping  the  rest  might  be  encouraged  by 
his  presence  to  take  food.  How,  day  after  day,  we  rode  down 
to  the  brink  of  that  dark  swollen  river,  where  men,  no  longer 
sanguine  in  their  search,  were  kept  dragging  up  the  mud  and 
weeds  by  the  promise  of  high  wages  ;  nor  will  I  tell  you  of  the 
Sabbath  when  we  all,  weeping  and  stricken,  assembled  in  our 
pew.  Once,  in  the  service,  an  unexpected  sob  from  Theodosius 
Ord  seemed  to  startle  the  congregation. 

Miss  Taylor  had  come  back  to  us.  She  pitied  and  excused 
every  one ;  was  betrayed  into  a  thousand  inconsistencies  of 
speech — never  into  an  inconsistency  of  kindly  feeling.  Your 
husband  said  very  little  to  us  ;  but  the  silent  sympathy  of  his 
daughter  seemed  everything  to  him.  Katie  seemed  to  be 
teaching  him  the  power  and  the  worth  of  a  true  woman.  She 
was  always  clinging  to  his  side,  directing  him  in  all  he  did, 
with  a  calm  soothing  influence  to  which  he  made  no  opposi- 
tion ;  comforting  him  more,  it  seemed  to  us,  by  a  sense  of  her 
sympathy  than  by  the  power  of  her  words.  Sometimes,  when 
released  for  a  few  moments  from  the  side  of  "  poor  papa,"  she 
would  walk  apart  with  Theodosius.  She  used,  you  know,  to  be 
afraid  of  him,  but  all  that  had  disappeared. 

I,  too,  might,  perhaps,  have  been  the  confidant  of  her  sorrow, 
but  I  was  less  ready  to  talk  of  you  than  he.  It  pained  me  a 
little  that  they  found  so  clos£  a  bond  of  union  in  their  loss. 

She  sat  beside  her  father  when  he  looked  over  your  papers. 
She  bids  me  tell  you,  that  all  he  gave  her  she  has  sent  to  you. 
They  relate  principally  to  your  experience  and  your  feelings. 
He  charged  Katie  to  return  Theodosius  his  letters.  For  his  own 
share  he  kept  your  account  books,  your  book  of  receipts,  and 
your  journal,  the  baptismal  register  of  your  child,  the  little 
paper  with  his  hair,  the  bills  relating  to  his  funeral,  and  (which 
he  afterwards  gave  Katie)  the  drawing  of  the  grave  under  the 
yews.  Theodosius  said  something  to  Katie  about  the  Vicar  of 
S ,  and  Katie  communicated  it  to  her  father.  He  rode 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

over  to  S alone,  and  spent  two  days  there.     On  his  return 

I  heard  him  desire  Katie  to  get  out  a  pearl  cross  you  used  to 
wear,  and  send  it  to  the  Vicar's  lady  as  a  remembrance  of  you. 

He  wrote  to  the  Admiralty  for  employment,  and  got  an  order 
to  take  command  of  the  Alcastor  frigate,  forming  part  of  the 
blockading  force  on  the  coast  of  Africa.  On  receiving  the 
appointment,  he  and  Ord  had  a  long  interview,  the  nature  of 
which  we  were  not  told,  but  it  produced  a  happy  change  in 
their  relations  with  each  other.  Theodosius  has  sailed  with 
him  to  Africa. 

The  day  before  they  left,  Katie  and  her  father  went  through 
the  village  and  to  Churt,  visiting  the  cottagers.  In  this  walk 
your  husband  heard  your  praises,  and  learned  the  deep  devo- 
tion and  respect  paid  to  your  memory.  They  pitied  the  "  poor 
gentleman,"  asked  questions  about  you  after  their  way,  and 
condoled  with  him  on  his  bereavement.  Everywhere  he  scat- 
tered money,  and  every  cottage,  Katie  says,  they  left  in  tears. 
He  has  taken  your  puppy,  Piero,  to  his  ship.  Barba  is  dead. 
He  pined  when  you  had  gone,  attached  himself  to  Katie  and 
the  captain,  and  died  one  night  upon  her  bed.  I  had  nearly 
forgotten  to  tell  you  that  the  French  Colonel,  at  the  cottage, 
partially  recovered.  At  any  rate,  he  got  well  enough  to  go 
away.  A  valet  came  down  to  him  from  town,  and  he  paid 
Mrs.  Caesar  handsomely. 

I  have  got  a  new  tutor  from  Oxford ;  a  solemn  prig,  but  a 
good  scholar.  He  has  revived  many  of  my  forgotten  tastes, 
and  some  of  my  old  ambition.  When  I  lost  my  sight,  I  was 
almost  prepared  for  my  "  little  go,"  and  I  begin  to  believe 
I  may  easily  recover  that  preparation.  Adopting  your  favorite 
maxim,  "  that  man  is  to  mould  circumstance,"  I  do  not  see  why 
I  should  not  go  creditably  through  college.  At  any  rate  a 
college  life  will  offer  me  variety-^the  hope  of  success  will 
stimulate  exertion,  and  both  are  necessary. 

Will  you  refuse  to  write  to  us,  dear  Amabel  ?  Remember 
that  we  are  ignorant  of  where  you  have  been  hidden  during 
our  long  search,  as  well  as  of  what  you  are  now  doing.  We 
need  your  sympathy  and  encouragement  in  all  our  hopes  and 
endeavours ;  are  you  above  the  influence  of  ours  * 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  40? 

How  shall  I  impress  you  so  strongly  with  the  wish  of  my 
whole  soul  that  you  should  write,  that  you  must  answer  me  ? 
Nay ;  I  will  close  my  letter  without  urging  you.  I  have  such 
perfect  faith  in  all  you  have  done,  or  can  ever  do,  that  I  only 
say — write,  I  implore  you,  write  for  all  our  sakes,  unless  you 
have  some  cause  for  silence  so  sufficient  that  you  feel  it  justifies 
your  giving  us  who  love  you,  deep,  deep  pain,  instead  of  a 
strengthening  and  refreshing  pleasure. 

The  black  paper  of  my  writing  machine  is  nearly  worn 
away  ;  and  indeed  I  fear  to  trust  myself  to  write  more  lest  I 
should  urge  on  you  my  hope  and  break  my  resolution. 
With  all  respect,  affection,  and  devotion, 
Your  faithful  friend, 

HORACE  VANE. 


AMABEL   TO    HORACE. 

Great  Ormond  Street,  August  3,  1820. 
DEAR  HORACE, 

You  well  knew  that  the  simple  expression  of  your  interest  in 
my  fate,  would  be  more  powerful  than  any  eloquent  persuasions. 
I  did  not  mean  to  write — nor  do  I  think  it  well  to  keep  up  this 
correspondence,  but  I  must  answer  your  long  letter,  partly, 
because  it  affected  me  very  much,  and  partly  because  its  first 
words  contain  an  arraignment  of  Providence,  and  show  a  want 
of  appreciation  of  what  I  conceive  to  be  my  true  position. 

I  have  long  known  that  it  was  good  for  me  that  I  have  been 
afflicted,  but  I  now  know  it  has  been  well  that  Mr.  Ord's 
scheme  for  my  happiness  was  permitted  to  fail.  More  than 
ever  I  felt  this  when  I  read  your  letter.  The  tears  my  husband 
shed  over  what  he  supposed  to  be  my  fate  were  tears  of  manly 
pity.  His  better  feelings  were  called  out  in  favor  of  my  woman- 
hood. He  wept  with  some  feeling  of  self-reproach — with  some 
remembrance  of  the  days  when  we  were  happy.  But  for  the  sad 
manner  in  which  he  fancied  I  had  met  my  death,  no  tears  from 
his  eyes  would  have  fallen  on  my  sepulchre,  and  when  he  knows 
that  I  am  yet  alive,  he  will  blush  at  having  shed  them.  For 
years  after  our  separation  I  daily  assured  myself  that  the  appeal  I 


408  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

had  made  to  him  in  writing  would  have  its  effect  upon  him. 
I  believed  and  hoped  he  would  restore  to  me  his  confidence, 
and  love  me. — I  see  now  that  the  hope  I  nursed  was  vain.  I  do 
not  desire  to  be  acknowledged  without  affection.  I  can  make 
my  way  alone  through  life.  I  have  proved  I  can. 

I  have  cut  adrift,  dear  Horace,  from  my  past.  I  will  no 
longer  labor  at  the  wretched  task  of  making  it  the  platform 
of  my  Present  or  my  Future.  It  clogged  my  steps  through  the 
three  years  I  lived  at  Sandrock,  and  had  I  joined  my  husband, 
as  I  hoped,  I  see  now  that  it  would  have  chained  me  more 
than  ever.  It  was  a  sad  and  evil  Past.  But,  Horace,  it  is 
dead  to  me  at  length.  I  will  no  longer  be 

"  A  slave,  bound  face  to  face  with  death,  till  death." 

For  I  have  conquered.  Henceforth  I  cast  the  Past  behind  my 
back,  and  will  work  out  my  own  Future.  Do  you  not  see — I 
see  it  now — that  had  such  a  reconciliation  as  a  third  party  can 
effect  been  brought  about  between  us,  by  the  efforts  of  your 
cousin,  we  could  not  have  been  happy  without  that  love  and 
mutual  trust  to  which  the  very  steps  taken  to  effect  our  reunion 
would  have  imposed  a  barrier  ? 

Imagine  the  case  other  than  it  was — imagine  Col.  Guiscard 
had  not  crossed  my  path  after  the  separation, — imagine  that 
my  husband  and  Mr.  Ord  had  found  Lucretia  at  her  spinning — 
remember  that  my  husband  had  consented  to  see  his  wife,  not 
from  choice  on  his  own  part,  but  persuasion.  To  be  persuaded 
by  others  to  love  abstract  excellence  or  penitence,  and  to  love 
the  lovingness  that  loves  us,  are  very  different  things. 

We  might  again  have  lived  together,  and  have  worn  the 
marriage  yoke  with  cold  respectability — but  I  am  convinced 
there  could  have  been  little  happiness  for  either.  He  would 
always  have  mistrusted  the  wife  he  had  been  persuaded  into 
forgiving,  nor  could  I  ever  have  won  my  way  into  his  af- 
fection. I  should  have  pined  under  a  sense  of  his  mistrust. 
I  see  that  it  is  better  as  it  is.  Believe  it  so,  as  I  do,  dearest 
Horace. 

The  certainty  that  struck  Hope  dead 

Hath  left  contentment  in  its  stead  ; 

Anil  that  is  next  to  best. 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  409 

I  am  writing  in  the  two  pair  of  stairs  back  room  of  a  large 
and  once  handsome  house,  where  I  have  taken  lodgings.  This 
part  of  London  was  the  fashion  in  Queen  Anne's  day.  It  is 
far  from  the  scene  of  my  toil,  but  this  gives  me  a  walk  which 
I  am  glad  to  force  myself  to  take  every  day. 

Could  you  look  in  upon  me  at  this  moment,  you  would 
think  me  a  lady  of  leisure.  I  am  sitting  at  my  little  table — 
It  is  after  dinner,  about  four  o'clock.  My  dinner  I  cooked 
myself  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  You  would  be  rather  sur- 
prised at  the  development  of  my  talents  for  cooking,  sweeping, 
dusting,  and  all  other  things  in  which  a  woman  ought  to  be 
instructed.  I  know  now  the  full  value  of  a  sausage.  With  a 
pound  of  this  comestible,  I  can  almost  rival  the  reputation  of 
the  French  Marshal's  chef  de  cuisine,  who  sent  up  during  the 
straitness  of  a  siege,  seven  courses  and  a  dessert,  made  out 
of  his  master's  leathern  slippers.  Did  you  know  there  were 
upwards  of  three  hundred  ways  of  cooking  eggs  ?  Have  you 
measured  the  capacities  ad  infinitum  of  a  salad  ? 

To  you,  your  dinner  is — your  dinner.  A  daily  event  too 
much  a  matter  of  course  to  be  anticipated — too  little  varied  to 
inspire  interest ;  but  to  one  who  has  to  earn,  and  buy,  and 
cook,  as  well  as  eat  the  meal,  it  becomes  the  event  of  the  day, 
the  prominent  circumstance,  and  every  little  thing  upon  your 
table,  from  the  pepper  you  bought  yesterday,  to  the  potatoe 
which,  if  not  eaten  to-day,  will  be  saute  d  la  maHre  d'kotel 
to-morrow,  has  an  individual  interest  and  a  history. 

Life  is  full  of  interests,  dear  Horace, — I  am  bound  to  it  by 
as  many  tiny  cords  as  those  which  confined  Gulliver  in  Lilliput ; 
and  if  life  has  many  interests  to  offer  me,  what  may  it  not 
have  for  you  and  others  !  I  am  interested  in  my  fellow- 
dwellers  in  this  house.  Without  uncovering  more  than  this 
one  roof,  I  could  spin  you  a  longer  and  a  purer  version  of  the 
Diable  Boiteux.  In  return  for  some  little  instruction  I  am 
giving  to  their  children,  my  fellow-lodgers  bring  me  up  my 
water  and  coals. 

The  thing  that,  perhaps,  would  the  most  surprise  you,  could 
you  gaze  on  me  and  my  apartment  in  a  magic  glass,  would  be 
my  costume.  I  am  wearing  a  brown  stuff  gown,  with 

18 


410  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTOKY. 

pockets,  and  an  apron.  My  hair  is  put  up  under  a  quaint 
starched  cap,  with  a  high  crown.  I  wear  a  long  black  ribbon 
at  my  side,  from  whence  depends  a  pair  of  scissors. 

Sometimes  I  walk  in  the  Park,  still  in  this  strange  costume. 
Nobody  looks  the  little  brown  woman  in  the  face;  I  am 
equally  secure  from  insult  and  observation.  On  Sundays  I 
resume  my  former  dress,  for  Annie,  Ned,  and  little  Joe,  are 
here.  It  is  a  pleasant  interlude.  The  horn  of  plenty  empties 
itself  on  Sundays  on  our  table.  I  take  them  to  some  quiet 
church,  where  we  sit  in  the  aisle  amongst  the  poor  and  the 
stranger.  Sometimes  we  take  a  quiet  walk  when  church  is 
done.  Once  or  twice  I  have  carried  them  to  Westminster. 

I  am  sure  that  you  are  wondering  what  my  occupation  in 
life  can  be — how  I  can  earn  my  daily  bread,  and  yet  have  so 
much  leisure. 

My  calling  is  denoted  by  my  dress,  which  is  that  of  a  nurse 
in  a  public  hospital,  a  position  for  which  I  feel  myself  peculiarly 
adapted  by  my  early  experience  and  education.  It  is  a  voca- 
tion that  gives  endless  opportunities  of  usefulness.  "  I  magnify 
mine  office."  We  nurses  are  not  only  auxiliaries  of  the  physi- 
cians of  the  body,  but  we  can  aid  the  work  of  the  Great 
Physician  of  souls.  I  am  surprised  that  decayed  gentlewomen 
of  the  better  class,  who  sigh  after  conventual  life,  and  crowd 
the  daily  papers  with  advertisements,  so  seldom  make  choice 
of  this  occupation.  It  is  safe,  independent,  respectable,  and 
responsible.  It  may  be  dignified  by  a  religious  self-conse- 
cration. 

"  That  which  does  good  disgraceth  no  degree,"  and  the 
Saviour  says — "  He  that  would  be  great  amongst  you  let  him 
be  your  minister," — putting  honor  itself  on  such  an  office,  so 
that  she  who  dreads  lowliness  need  not  be  deterred. 

I  am  one  of  the  night  watchers  at  our  hospital,  my  hours 
of  attendance  on  the  sick  being  from  sunset  to  sunrise.  I  chose 
this  rather  than  day-duty,  because  it  leaves  me  half  my  Sunday 
after  sleep,  to  devote  to  my  brothers  and  sister. 

You  will  wish,  I  suppose,  to  receive  some  account  of  what 
became  of  me  .on  quitting  Sandrock.  I  will  give  you  a  brief 
outline  of  the  principal  events  before  I  close  my  letter.  After 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  411 

leaving  the  post-boy  and  his  chaise,  I  went  on  foot  across  the 
heath,  I  know  not  how.  I  must  have  wandered  far  and  fast,  for 
after  terrible  visions,  which  I  remember  far  better  than  my  phy- 
sical sufferings,  which  were  also  very  great,  I  was  picked  up  by 
some  people  at  the  brick-kilns,  seven  miles  the  other  side  of 

F ,  in  the  midst  of  the  lone  heath  near  Farnborough. 

I  there  had  a  rheumatic  fever.  They  did  not  call  in  any 
doctor.  A  doctor  was  unknown  in  their  rude  hut.  These  peo- 
ple had  been  born,  and  struggled  through  every  kind  of  evil  to 
which  flesh  is  heir,  and  buried  their  relations  in  their  time,  with- 
out a  doctor.  No  inquiries  were  made  for  me  so  far  away  from 

F .     No  handbills  offered  a  reward,  and  they  discovered  I 

had  not  made  my  escape  from  the  county  asylum.  I  heard 
them  consulting  whether  to  take  me  to  the  workhouse.  Their 
principal  difficulty  was  how  to  get  me  there  ;  for  the  workhouse 
was  many  miles  distant  from  their  kiln.  They  decided,  at  last, 
that  I  should  go  with  the  next  load  of  bricks  that  a  farmer, 
called  Joe  Downing,  might  send  over  for. 

I  husbanded  my  strength,  and  before  that  time  arrived,  con- 
trived one  day  to  elude  their  eyes,  and  those  of  their  old 
mother.  I  left  behind  me  gold  enough  to  pay  them  for  their 
care,  for  these  people,  though  uncivilized,  were  honest,  and  had 
not  touched  my  money. 

I  dragged  myself  to  a  milestone  on  the  road  that  crosses  the 
great  heath,  and  soon  the  London  coach  came  up  with  its  four 
horses,  prancing  and  foaming.  It  was  like  a  dream  when  the 
coach  door  was  opened,  the  iron  steps  let  down,  and  I  got  in. 
There  was  but  one  passenger  inside.  My  appearance,  I  daresay, 
surprised  him.  My  shawl  was  pinned  over  my  head,  and  I 
must  have  looked  not  a  little  singular. 

He  offered  me  his  newspaper.  It  was  the  24th  of  April — I 
had  left  Sandrock  in  March.  The  young  fellow  was  a  medical 
student.  He  asked  if  I  had  been  ill  ?  I  said  "  with  rheumatic 
fever."  "  My  good  woman,  you  are  not  fit  to  travel  yet,"  was 
his  reply. 

Something,  however,  seemed  to  win  me  his  respect.  Perhaps 
he  detected  a  lady  under  my  India  shawl,  for  afterwards  he 
called  me  ':  ma'am,"  and  tried  to  be  verv  attentive. 


AMABEL;    A   FA  MILT   HISTORY. 

The  journey  was  too  long  for  me.  Before  entering  London 
I  fainted  away,  and  the  young  medical  passenger  did  his  best 
to  bring  me  to.  He  felt  in  my  pocket  for  salts,  and  found  I 
had  money,  but  could  derive  no  indication  of  where  I  belonged. 

At  length  the  coach  stopped.  He  was  a  good-natured 
young  fellow ;  and  I  seemed  to  be  thrown  on  his  compassion. 
He  put  me  into  a  hackney  coach,  and  drove  me  to  a  hospital. 
There  I  lay  many  days  hardly  alive.  When  I  began  to  recover 
my  senses,  and  to  look  about  me,  I  was  greatly  struck  with  the 
beautiful  order  and  regularity  that  prevailed.  Some  persons 
who  have  never  seen  a  hospital,  fancy  it  an  inferno  of  dreadful 
sights  and  sounds.  It  is  quite  the  contrary.  The  ward  in 
which  I  lay  was  airy  and  convenient.  It  contained  forty-eight 
little  white  beds.  Those  in  which  patients  lay  dying  and  deli- 
rious were  railed  off  by  a  white  screen. 

I  assure  you  I  would  rather  be  a  convalescent  in  a  hospital 
than  at  home.  Your  own  room  grows  so  close  when  you  are 
ill,  and  seems  to  contract  daily.  You  weary  of  its  monotony — 
you  are  cut  off  from  your  kind — and  are  tied  down  to  an  exclu- 
sive interest  in  your  own  symptoms.  In  a  hospital,  on  the  con- 
trary, your  attention  is  called  off  from  your  own  condition ;  you 
are  amused  and  interested  by  what  is  passing  round  you.  If 
you  have  no  friends  to  come  and  visit  you,  you  nevertheless 
take  pleasure  in  the  arrival  of  the  days  when  those  about  you 
expect  to  s€e  their  friends.  The  ward  of  which  you  are  an 
inmate  has  its  public  opinion,  its  gossip,  and  its  society.  Your 
fellow-sufferers,  even  those  to  whom  you  never  speak,  become, 
by  force  of  sympathy,  your  friends.  Were  it  not  for  the  medi- 
cal staff  which  daily  gathers  round  your  couch  to  be  lectured 
to  upon  the  nature  of  your  symptoms,  a  slow  recovery  in  a 
hospital  would  be  one  of  the  forms  of  the  dolce  far  niente. 

After  a  time,  however,  cares  for  the  future  began  to  intrude 
into  my  mind.  I  was  not  very  uneasy  ;  I  had  chosen  my  path 
in  life,  where  four  roads  met,  several  times  before. 

The  principal  physician  who  attended  our  establishment  was 
a  person  I  had  consulted  some  years  previously  while  passing 

through  London  on  my  way  to  S .    One  day  I  asked  him 

if  he  could  spare  me  a  few  minutes,  aud  the  next  morning  he 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  413 

entered  the  ward  earlier  than  usual,  and  came  alone  to  me. 
One  of  the  nurses  was  about  to  leave  the  hospital.  I  told  him 
I  wanted  to  succeed  her.  I  gave  him  as  much  of  my  history 
as  it  concerned  him  to  know,  and  told  him  of  the  experience 
in  the  care  of  the  sick  which  I  had  had  in  early  life,  under  Dr. 
Glascock  in  Valetta.  I  allowed  him  to  refer,  as  to  my  charac- 
ter, to  the  Vicar  of  S ,  who  I  knew  would  speak  as  favor- 
ably as  he  could  of  me. 

The  result  was  that  the  good  word  of  Dr.  L secured 

me  the  situation  I  now  occupy.  I  am  trusted  by  the  hospital 
authorities,  and  I  hope  I  am  beloved  by  many  of  the  patients 
who  come  under  my  care.  Many  a  one  with  his  last  breath 
has  given  me  his  blessing,  and  convalescents  come  often  to  my 
room  to  claim  my  interest  in  their  little  affairs. 

I  am  happy,  dear  Horace.  We  who  have  no  ties  of  family 
need  not  be  destitute  of  other  ties.  Our  interests  are  bounded 
by  the  universe  alone. 

Is  man,  the  immortal,  to  have  the  life  that  lies  within  him 
necessarily  limited  and  cramped,  by  any  set  of  events  or 
bereavements,  or  privations  ? 

"  All  is  yours,"  says  the  promise ;  "  life,  death,  things  pre- 
sent, things  to  come."  In  the  face  of  such  words  can  I  say,  / 
have  lost  all? 

Yet,  I  look  forward  to  death  as  the  chamberlain  of  the  Lord. 
Sometimes  I  think  of  him  as  transformed  into  my  friend,  hold- 
ing out  to  me  his  skeleton  palm,  and  conducting  my  weak  steps 
into  the  presence  of  my  Saviour.  God  be  praised,  this  weary 
life  is  but  a  waiting  in  the  antechamber  !  The  Christian's  true 
existence  lies  beyond. 

I  dare  not  send  any  message  of  affection  to  your  aunt  or  to 
my  dearest  child — yet  tell  her  always  to  wear  the  little  ring  I 
placed  upon  her  finger.  Tell  her — I  know  not  what  to  tell  her 
— I  have  so  little  hope  we  shall  ever  meet  again  in  this  world ! 
You  may  tell  her  that  the  other  day  I  saw  her  brother.  He 
and  Ned  sleep  in  the  same  room  at  school,  and  are  great  friends 
with  each  other.  Ned,  who  is  not  aware  of  our  connexion, 
brought  him  here  last  week  on  a  half  holiday,  entreating  me  to 
dress  the  poor  child's  feet,  which  were  covered  with  chilblains. 


'414  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

I  could  not  turn  the  suffering  child  away,  but  I  told  Ned  he 
must  never  again  bring  me  any  of  his  companions.  Nothing 
so  painful  as  this  has  happened  to  me  since  I  left  you.  I  could 
not  bring  my  mind  to  tell  him  who  I  was ;  but  perhaps  it  may 
be  as  well  Katie  should  do  so  in  a  letter. 

Let  us  all  strive  for  unity  of  faith,  of  spirit,  and  of  purpose 
here  ;  and  hereafter,  my  beloved  ones,  there  will  be  union  ever- 
lastingly !  "Sur  guoi,  je  prie  Dieu  qu'il  vous  ait  en  sa  sainte 
et  digne  garde" 

AMABEL. 


CHAPTER   II. 

And  if  this  like  love  to  stand 
With  no  help  in  my  hand, 
When  strong  as  Death  I  fain  would  watch  above  thee  t 

MRS.  BROWNING.— The  Valediction. 

NEARLY  two  years  after  the  date  of  the  last  letter,  a  group  of 
our  dramatis  personoe  were  assembled  on  the  telegraph  hill,  near 
Portsmouth.  It  was  in  the  summer  season — a  very  hot  July. — 
Amabel  and  Annie  Talbot  were  sitting  on  the  close  parched 
turf,  without  their  bonnets,  which  were  lying  beside  them. 
They  were  looting  towards  the  ocean,  watching  for  the  first 
puff  of  the  sea-breeze  after  sunset.  The  blue  offing  shone  like 
silver,  where  it  melted  soft  into  the  hazy  sky,  and  right  across 
it  glanced  a  golden  path,  seeming  to  pave  the  waters  to  the 
setting  sun.  Light  sparkled  upon  every  surge,  up  to  where  the 
ripple  of  a  sea  at  rest  flashed  upon  the  copper  of  the  frigates  at 
Spithead. 

In  the  distance,  indistinct  at  first  in  the  bright  haze  of  glow- 
ing sunlight,  a  brig  and  a  frigate,  standing  in  shore,  were  notice- 
able. The  brig  had  the  frigate  in  tow.  At  first  sight,  one 
might  have  thought  that  they  stood  still  on  the  smooth  silvered 
blue  of  the  water ;  nevertheless,  rising  upon  the  swells  could  be 
every  now  and  then  seen,  with  increasing  distinctness,  the  dark 
Bide  and  white  streak  of  the  man-o'-war,  checkered  with  a 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  415 

double  row  of  ports,  her  wake  gleaming  white  in  the  heave  of 
the  sea.  The  brig  was  a  long,  rakish-looking  craft  of  Yankee 
build,  painted  blacE,  with  sharp  bows.  As  the  two  women  sat 
watching  the  slow  nearing  of  these  vessels,  they  were  joined  by 
two  lads  in  midshipmen's  uniform. 

Never,  in  after  life,  does  the  naval  officer  feel  himself  so  great 
a  man  as  when  he  first  walks  the  Common  Hard  of  Portsmouth, 
with  his  new  laced  hat  on  his  round  head,  and  his  shining 
middy's  dirk  stuck  in  his  girdle.  The  magnificent  air  of  proud 
indifference  with  which  these  young  gentlemen  acknowledge 
the  salutes  of  the  marines,  standing  sentry  at  the  dock-yard 
gates,  is  unsurpassed  for  supercilious  condescension. 

They  stood  by  Amabel  and  Annie,  pointing  towards  Spit- 
head,  and  discoursing  on  the  build  and  rates  of  sailing  of  the 
shipping.  Having  been  educated  at  a  naval  school,  founded 
for  the  instruction  of  the  sons  of  officers,  they  had  some  nauti- 
cal knowledge,  of  which  they  made  a  great  display,  spicing 
their  conversation  so  largely  with  sea  terms  that  their  discourse 
was  nearly  unintelligible  to  Annie,  who,  though  the  daughter 
of  a  post-captain,  did  not  know  the  braces  from  the  guards,  nor 
the  fore  from  the  after  part  of  a  Vessel.  Amabel  was  wiser. 
She  cast  an  intelligent  look  out  to  sea,  when,  pointing  to  the 
brig  which  seemed  tender  to  the  frigate,  they  noticed  the  flap 
of  her  fore-top-sail,  and  said  that  the  wind  was  drawing  ahead 
for  her,  and  it  would  come  pretty  near  from  due  nor'-east 
before  long. 

These  boys  were  Ned  Talbot  and  John  Warner,  fast  friends 
and  schoolmates,  who  had  suddenly  emerged  together  into 
midshipman-hood.  It  was  the  close  of  the  London  season. 
Annie  Talbot,  who  had  been  worn  out  with  hard  labor,  had 
been  ordered  to  recruit  at  the  sea-side.  Amabel  (that  quiet 
little  brown  figure  in  a  plain  white  cap)  had  obtained  leave  of 
absence,  and  Portsmouth  had  been  selected  in  spite  of  the  supe- 
rior cheapness  of  Margate,  because  it  would  enable  them  to  see 
the  last  of  their  brother  Ned.  Amabel  had  not  been  aware  that 
John  Warner  would  be  with  him  when  she  left  London.  John, 
however,  had  travelled  down  with  her  inside  the  coach,  and 
treated  her  with  the  greatest  respect  and  consideration.  He 


41G  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

had  received  many  letters  from  his  sister  Katie,  on  the  subject 
of  their  step-mother.  Katie,  by  the  way,  and  Miss  Taylor  were 
in  Portsmouth  at  this  moment.  They  had  come  to  see  John 
oft";  and  as  soon  as  Katie  learned  from  him  that  Amabel  was 
there,  she  made  many  an  attempt  to  meet  her  accidentally. 
And,  therefore,  Amabel,  who  thought  it  right  that  her  life 
should  be  henceforward  dissevered  from  her  step-children, 
shunned  all  frequented  streets  in  order  to  avoid  a  meeting ;  and 
discouraged,  though  she  did  not  quite  forbid,  John  Warner's 
visits  to  her  quiet  lodging. 

John  had  a  ship's  glass  in  his  hand,  which  he  was  bringing 
to  bear  upon  the  vessels,  endeavoring  to  steady  it  for  the  ladies, 
who  generally  succeeded  in  seeing  vaguely  dim  patches  of  grey 
sky ;  and  who,  when  prominent  objects  had  been  sought  and 
found  for  their  inspection,  contrived,  before  they  got  their  eye 
fairly  to  the  glass,  to  let  the  whole  picture  drop  back  into  the 
channel. 

"  Dreadful  dirty  she  looks  aloft,  John,"  said  Ned,  taking  the 
glass.  "  Her  ropes  are  all  hanging  about  her  yards  in  kinks. 
That  is  not  the  order  I  should  choose  to  keep  aboard  a  man- 
o'-war." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  John,  taking  the  glass.  "  What  a  precious  lot 
of  old  hamper  she's  got  hanging  about  her." 

As  the  boys  were  making  their  comments  on  these  ships,  and 
taking  brief  peeps  at  them  in  the  intervals  of  fixing  the  spy-glass 
for  the  ladies,  they  had  not  noticed  some  men  coming  up  the 
hill  to  work  the  telegraph  ;  and  soon  the  great  unwieldy  wooden 
arms  were  playing  up  and  down  in  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun. 

"  What  frigate's  that  ?"  said  Ned  to  one  of  the  men  standing 
about  the  place,  who  had  the  appearance  of  a  sailor. 

"That  there's  the  Alcastor  frigate,  Cap'n  Warner,  come 
home,  sir,  from  Bight  o'  Benin.  She  have  the  black  vomit 
aboard  her.  That  there's  her  prize,  a  slaver,  towing  of  her. 
They  say  she  hasn't  got  well  men  enough  on  board  to  work 
her  in.  All  hands  is  took  down,  men  and  officers,  aboard  her. 
They  are  dying  off  as  thick  as  peas.  The  Admiral  has 
ordered  them  to  moor  her  oft'  the  Motheibank  in  strict  qua- 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY.  417 

rantine.  They  are  working  a  message  up  to  town  to  ask  what's 
to  be  done  about  her." 

"  Do  you  know,  sir,"  said  John  Warner,  dropping  his  new- 
found airs,  and  flushing  in  the  face,  while  Amabel  with  lips 
apart  grew  pale  as  marble,  "do  you  know,  sir,  whether  her 
captain  is  on  board  ?  He  is  my  father." 

The  man  touched  his  hat,  gazed  silently  a  moment  into  the 
boy's  face,  with  a  kindly  look  of  rough  compassion,  then  shifted 
his  tobacco  in  his  cheek,  and  looked  away  as  he  answered — 

"  I  believe,  Mr.  Warner,  your  father  is  on  board,  sir.  He 
was  a  fine  officer.  I  served  under  him  once,  sir,  in  the  Dodo 
sloop-of-war,  in  the  Mediterranean." 

"  Was  /"  exclaimed  Amabel,  seizing  his  arm.  "  Did  you 
mean  -was  ?  Is  he  dead  ?  Is  it  over  2" 

"  No,  marm — no,  my  lady,"  said  the  man ;  "  only  ill,  marm. 
He  may  get  over  it.  Try  and  hope  he  may." 

Annie  began  to  cry ;  not  that  she  in  the  least  remembered 
Captain  Warner,  or  had  heard  his  name  for  years ;  but  her 
heart  was  soft,  and  her  feelings  easily  moved. 

Amabel  did  not  lament  aloud,  nor  faint,  nor  shriek,  as  the 
boys  supposed  she  would,  nor  did  she  even  cover  her  pale  face, 
nor  wring  her  hands ;  she  stood  with  a  fixed  abstracted  look, 
gazing  at  the  ships  which  were  coming  to  their  moorings. 
There  was  something,  however,  in  the  expression  of  her  face, 
which  made  John  Warner  pity  her  from  his  whole  soul.  He 
went  up  and  shook  her  by  the  hand.  The  tears  that  rolled  in 
silence  down  his  face  overcame  her. 

"  Oh  !  my  son."  she  cried,  "  is  there  no  help  ?'' 

And  the  poor  fellow  could  not  answer  her. 

Then  Amabel  disengaged  herself  from  all  of  them,  and  walked 
apart.  As  usual,  when  much  moved,  there  came  into  her  mind 
a  text  of  Scripture.  This  time  it  was,  "  Gird  up  the  loins  of 
your  mind — be  sober — and  hope  to  the  end"  She  took  it  as  a 
message  to  herself — the  voice  of  heaven  in  her  heart,  and  she 
was  comforted.  In  a  few  moments  she  lifted  up  her  face — very 
pale,  but  more  composed.  As  she  stood  with  her  back  to  the 
telegraph  and  her  companions,  she  saw  in  the  north-east 
corner  of  the  sky,  a  small  cloud  rising  with  extreme  rapidity ; — 


418  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY. 

light,  misty,  and  yet  clearly  defined  against  the  sky,  with  three 
tall  points  mounting  to  the  zenith — it  looked  like  the  distant 
shrouds  and  sails  of  some  far  off  giant  ship,  or  like  the  shoot- 
ing ray  of  an  aurora. 

The  rest  of  the  party  joined  her ;  silently  they  hastened  to 
their  temporary  home.  Ned  Talbot  and  Jack  Warner  took 
leave  of  them  at  the  door  of  the  house  where  they  had  lodgings, 
and  promising  to  come  back,  and  tell  what  further  news  they 
might  collect,  went  off  to  make  inquiries. 

When  they  returned,  they  found  Annie  gone  up  to  her 
chamber.  The  long  walk  and  her  tears  had  exhausted  her. 
Amabel  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  with  her  face  hidden  in  the 
cushions,  weeping  quiet  tears.  She  wiped  them  away  when 
they  came  in,  and  struggled  to  receive  them  with  composure — 

"  The  shade  by  which  her  life  was  crossed 
Had  made  her  kindly  with  her  kind." 

It  was  natural  to  her  to  smile  a  welcome,  but  this  time  the 
smile  yielded  to  a  sob.  Tea  stood  prepared  upon  the  table, 
with  cream  and  strawberries,  but  nobody  could  eat,  and  as  soon 
as  they  had  told  her  the  little  news  that  they  had  been  able  to 
collect,  they  went  away  a  second  time. 

All  communication  with  the  plague  ship  was  forbidden. 
Medicines  and  fresh  provisions  were  to  be  put  into  empty  boats 
fastened  astern,  and  drawn  on  board  of  her.  Theodosius  Ord 
was  in  command  of  the  prize  slaver,  and  at  present  all  his  men 
were  healthy,  communication  between  the  brig  and  frigate  having 
been  cut  off  since  the  appearance  of  the  disorder.  The  surgeon 
of  the  Alcastor  had  been  one  of  the  first  victims,  and  it  was  said 
the  Admiral  was  looking  round  for  a  volunteer  to  send  on 
board  of  her,  if  any  medical  man  could  be  found  in  Ports- 
mouth, who  would  east  in  his  lot  Avith  the  plague-stricken,  and 
devote  himself  to  almost  certain  death,  for  the  bare  chance  of 
saving  some  one  life  by  his  professional  exertions. 

Amabel  heard  all  that  Ned  and  John  could  tell,  asked  calmly 
where  the  Admiral  resided,  and  dismissed  them  to  carry  their 
sad  news  to  Katie  and  Miss  Taylor. 

At  tl:t  door  John  Warner,  whose  heart  failed  him  at  the 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  419 

thought  of  his  sister's  grief,  turned  back  and  said  to  Ama- 
bel— 

"  Won't  you  go  with  us  ?  She  is  so  fond  of  you !  You  would 
break  it  to  her  better  than  I." 

"  No,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  other  work  to  do ;  but  take  her 
this,"  she  cried,  and  going  up  to  him,  to  the  disconcerting  of 
his  newly-fledged  dignity,  laid  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  kissed  him, 

"  Take  her  one  of  my  kisses,"  she  said,  "  and  to-morrow 
morning  bid  her  come  here  to  this  house,  as  early  as  she  can. 
God  bless  and  comfort  you  P' 

"  I  cannot  make  your  sister  out,"  said  John  to  Ned  as  they 
walked  on,  "  she  seems  to  take  my  poor  father's  danger  very 
quietly,  and  I  should  suppose  that  was  quite  natural  after  the 
terms  they  have  lived  upon  for  years — only  there  is  such  a  look 
of  suppressed  suffering  in  her  face," 

"  I  know  Amabel,"  said  Ned,  "  when  she  feels  much  she 
never  talks.  She  is  gathering  up  her  energies  for  something. 
When  she  takes  a  thing  in  hand,  there  is  nothing  she  can't  do." 

Meantime,  Amabel  had  sent  out  for  a  glass  coach.  In  it  she 
placed  a  basket  and  some  clothes.  Over  her  quiet  brown  stuff 
gown,  she  threw  the  soft  folds  of  her  cashmere,  and  put  her 
bonnet  over  the  close  Avhite  cap,  which  in  the  hospital  marked 
her  position.  No  person,  though  the  fashion  of  her  dress  was 
quaint,  and  it  was  made  of  rough  material,  could  glance  at  her 
without  perceiving  at  once  she  was  a  lady ; — a  very  refined 
lady,  the  acute  observer  would  have  added,  had  his  eye  fallen 
on  the  neat  black  boot  she  set  upon  her  carriage-step,  or  on  the 
well  gloved  hand  which  rested  a  moment  on  the  coat  sleeve  of 
her  coachman.  There  was  nothing  French  about  her  now, 
except  a  natural  taste  for  such  small  niceties. 

As  she  drove  through  the  suburbs  to  the  door  of  the  Port 
Admiral,  the  storm  that  had  been  gathering,  broke  over  the 
town.  The  cloud  which  had  risen  so  misty  and  so  white  upon 
the  clear  blue  sky,  to  the  north-east,  had  gathered  blackness  as 
it  spread  over  the  heaven.  To  westward,  where  the  sun  had 
set,  was  rolled  together  a  big,  black  bank  of  cloud,  glowing  like 
copper  at  the  top,  or  like  the  dull,  lurid  yellow  light  of  illumi- 


420  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

nated  smoke,  hanging  low  over  a  burning  city.  Of  a  sudden, 
the  thunder  broke  with  a  crash  out  of  the  midst  of  clouds  and 
darkness.  Amabel  started,  and  turned  pale ;  the  sound  was  so 
sudden  and  so  near,  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had 
fallen ;  and  then  the  long,  low,  sullen  roar  went  booming  over 
the  water.  The  thunder  followed  close  upon  a  blinding  flash, 
succeeded  by  the  rain,  dashing,  leaping,  rattling,  falling  on  the 
streets  with  a  force  more  nearly  like  the  dash  of  stone  to  stone 
than  like  the  fall  of  water. 

In  this  tremendous  rain,  Amabel's  carriage  drove  down  High 
street,  and  stopped  at  the  Port  Admiral's  door. 

She  got  out,  and  desired  the  servant  to  let  her  speak  with 
Admiral  P .  Her  heart  felt  sick  and  faint  within  her. 

"  Papa,"  said  one  of  the  Admiral's  young  ladies,  who  had 
seen  her  as  she  was  shown  in.  "  There  is  somebody  waiting  to 
see  you  in  the  library." 

"  Who  is  it,  my  dear  ?" 

"  It's  a  woman  of  some  kind." 

That  sixth  sense,  by  which  a  gentleman  at  once  detects 
gentility,  enabled  the  Admiral,  on  entering  his  library,  to  per- 
ceive a  lady  ;  and  he  begged  her  to  command  him,  with  the 
ceremonious  gallantry  of  an  officer  of  the  old  school. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  "  I  am  connected  with  an  hospital  in  London, 
and  am  experienced  in  fever.  I  want  an  order  to  go  on  board 
the  Alcastor." 

"  My  dear  woman,"  said  the  Admiral,  "  I  would  not  give 
you  such  a  thing  if  I  had  it  in  my  power.  Her  very  timbers 
are  infected  ; — her  men  and  officers  are  dying  off  by  dozens." 

"  Sir,"  said  Amabel,  coming  close  to  him,  and  laying  both 
her  hands  upon  the  knotted  fist  the  old  man  had  brought 
down  with  emphasis  upon  the  table — "  you  must  let  me  go  on 
board.  The  only  tie  I  have  to  life  is  there? 

"  Impossible, — impossible.  We  must  not  spread  the  feve:-. 
If  every  woman  went  on  board  "  .  .  .  . 

"  Oh  !  Admiral  P ,  let  me  go  to  my  husband  /" 

"  Indeed,  I  would,"  said  the  Admiral — "  I  would,  if  I  could. 
But  the  duty  of  a  commander,  ma'am,  is  more  to  save  life  than 
to  risk  it.  Who  is  your  husband  ?" 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT.  421 

"  He  is  on  board  the  Alcastor,"  said  Amabel,  evasively. 

"  Yes,  but  what  name  has  he  ?"  said  the  Admiral,  referring 
to  a  list.  "  Maybe  he  is  not  ill.  Tell  me  his  name  2" 

"  He  is  ill,"  said  Amabel. 

"  I  could  not  possibly  admit  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  Admiral. 

"  Oh  !  sir,"  cried  Amabel,  detaining  him,  "  not  if  I  get  a 
certificate  from  Lieut.  Ord,  now  acting  in  command  of  the 
prize  of  the  Alcastor,  that  I  am  a  fit  person  to  go  on  board, — 
that  my  knowledge  and  discretion  may  be  trusted  ? — Mr.  Ord 
knows  me." 

"  No,  Madam — no,''  said  the  Admiral,  "  I  could  not  take  the 
responsibility." 

"  But  a  physician,"  urged  Amabel,  "  is  to  be  allowed  to 
go." 

"  A  man  is  different,"  the  Admiral  replied.  "  A  man's  life 
ought  always  to  be  at  the  disposal  of  his  country,  but  I  could 
not  expose  a  woman." 

"  Oh  !  Admiral  P ,  a  woman  is  equally  a  human  being ! 

I  entreat — I  implore  you,"  cried  Amabel,  clasping  her  hands. 

All  she  could  get  out  of  the  Admiral  was,  "  I  know  my  duty. 
I  could  not  hear  of  it,  ma'am." 

She  felt  that  she  was  breaking  her  strength  against  a  rock, 
and  rose  to  leave  him. 

The  old  Admiral  walked  out  with  her  bareheaded,  into  the 
rain,  and  handed  her  ceremoniously  into  her  carriage. 

"  Where  to  ?"  said  the  coachman,  glistering  in  drenched 
tarpaulin. 

"  To  wherever  they  let  out  boats,"  said  Amabel. 

The  man  muttered,  "  that  he  fancied  no  waterman  would  like 
the  night  no  more  then  he,"  but  drove  her  down  to  the  Point. 
Here  Amabel  got  out.  Two  or  three  old  salts  who  had  been 
lounging  under  the  eaves  of  a  drinking-shop,  came  round  her. 
She  offered  them  a  high  price  if  they  would  take  her  within 
hail  of  the  black  brig  lying  at  the  Motherbank. 

"  Couldn't  manage  it,  inarm,  no  how,"  was  the  unanimous 
answer. 

"  Oh !  my  God !"  she  cried ;  "  my  good  men,  the  rain  has 
lessened — it  is  going  to  be  fine.  Ten  pounds ! — I  offer  you 


422  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY. 

ten  pounds, — won't  anybody  take  ten  pounds  ?  My  husband 
is  dying  on  board  the  Alcastor,  and  I  want  to  go  off  to 
him." 

"  No,  raarm,"  said  one  of  the  men,  who  had  stepped  a  little 
forward.  "  There's  none  on  us  as  'ud  like  to  go  a  cable's 
length  to  windward  o'  that  craft,  I'm  thinking.  I  thou't  you 
said  you  only  wanted  a  bit  of  a  hail  from  'tother  black  chap  as 
is  lyin'  in  her  company." 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  I  ask — indeed  it  is,"  said  Amabel,  "  I  want 
a  certificate  from  Lieut.  Ord,  who  is  on  board  of  her,  to  show 

Admiral  P ,  and  then  perhaps  he'll  let  me  go  on  board  the 

frigate,  to  my  husband."  The  last  words  dying  away  like  the 
sough  of  a  gust  piping  in  winter  through  the  trees. 

At  last  two  of  the  men  came  forward ;  and  knocking  the  ashes 
out  of  their  pipes,  which  they  had  smoked  at  intervals  in  short 
puffs,  during  the  colloquy,  and  putting  them  into  their  jacket 
pockets,  said,  with  many  hitches  at  their  trowsers,  that  if 
"  beside  the  ten  pound,  the  lady  would  stand  summut  to 
drink"  .... 

Amabel  interrupted  the  speech  by  putting  five  shillings  into 
the  hand  of  the  spokesman,  and  one  of  the  party  handed  her 
down  at  once  into  the  stern  sheets  of  a  small  wherry,  and 
stowed  her  "  traps,"  as  he  called  them,  snugly  in  the  locker. 

She  sat  there  slowly  soaking,  though  the  rain  fell  with  less 
fury  than  it  had  done  during  the  strength  of  the  storm. 

In  earlier  days  she  would  have  covered  her  face,  and  have 
lapsed  into  reverie  ;  now  she  kept  rising  in  the  boat,  looking 
for  the  boatmen,  trying  to  steady  herself  against  the  wet  piles 
of  the  jetty. 

"  Your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams,  your  young  men  shall  see 
visions,"  but  the  spirit  of  action  is  for  the  prime  of  age. 

And  yet  what  hope  for  her  was  there  in  action  ?  There  is 
an  extraordinary  vitality  in  hope — 'tis  the  true  Hydra.  We 
are  haunted  daily  by  the  ghosts  of  hopes,  years  after  we  have 
laid  them  with  weeping  and  with  mourning  in  their  graves. 
She  had  given  up  the  idea  of  ever  being  reconciled  to  her 
husband ;  she  had  even  persuaded  herself  that  such  a  recon- 
ciliation would  not  be  for  their  mutual  good  ;  she  had  torn  up 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  423 

the  desire  of  her  life,  and  rooted  out  its  fibres.  But  she  found 
it  living  still. 

Now  all  was  over ;  she  might  see  him, — die  beside  him — 
receive  forgiveness  from  those  tainted  lips,  the  only  reconcilia- 
tion possible, — and  after  that  came  death.  Her  lot  was  sealed ; 
she  had  no  earthly  future. 

There  arose  in  her  soul,  as  she  sat  unsheltered  in  the  boat,  a 
self-dependent  woman  in  the  power  of  rough  men,  a  vision — a 
prophecy  of  a  future  that  might  have  been, — a  vision  of  a  sunny 
summer  evening,  such  as  never  had  been,  nor  could  be,  at  the 
old  Cedars.  She  saw  the  trim  smooth  lawn,  the  clustering 
monthly  roses,  the  iron  roller  dragged  by  James,  the  gardener 
with  white  hair.  As  shading  her  eyes  from  the  bright  sunset 
she  listened  for  the  tramp  of  the  horse-hoofs  of  her  husband, 
she  felt  her  skirts  pulled  by  a  rosy  boy,  the  Leonard  who  lay 
dead  under  the  yews  ;  the  fair  face  of  Katie  smiled  on  her 
from  a  window,  and  suddenly  a  strong,  firm  arm,  was  clasped 
about  her  waist,  and  her  face  was  lifted  up,  and  met  her 
husband's  warm,  approving  kiss,  and  happy,  loving  smile. 

"  Ah  !  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 
The  low  beginnings  of  content  ?" 

Her  soul  was  stirred  to  its  very  depths.  Tender  recollections 
of  her  married  life  came  in  like  a  flood.  Wave  after  wave  of 
bitterness  broke  over  her.  She  was  off  her  feet  as  it  were — 
carried  away  as  by  a  mighty  surge. 

"  Sorrow  is  vain,  and  despondency  sinful."  "  Even  so,"  said 
her  spirit.  "  Forgive  me,  Leonard,"  said  the  voice  within, 
"  forgive  me  the  deficiency  in  courage  with  which  I  meet  my 
fate ; — forgive  me  for  this  weakness.  My  soul  seems  lost — 
adrift,  under  a  dark  sky,  and  in  wild  waters.  Oh !  Father 
Almighty  !  make  me  strong  for  Leonard's  sake,  that  when  we 
meet  hereafter, — as  oh  !  grant  we  may,  upon  the  crystal 
sea  before  Thy  throne,  there  may  not  be  charged  on  him  the 
guilt  of  any  of  my  murmuring  ! 

"  Wilt  thou  not  feel  it,  shame  aud  grief  to  thee, 
That  I,  for  thy  «ak«,  loved  less  fervently — 


424  AMABEL;   A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

Less  .heartily  obeyed,  less  understood, 
I  Him  whom  we  then  shall  both  acknowledge  Good  T 

Thou  hast  enough  to  bear  !     My  sins  and  fears, 
My  guilty  weaknesses,  and  sullen  tears, 
Shall  not  be  added,  dearest,  to  thy  load — 
Aid  me,  for  his  sake,  aid  me,  oh  !  my  God  ! 
,  .          To  hope  and  trust  in  Thee  !" 

As  she  repeated  this  verse  half  aloud,  the  men  came  out  of 
the  drinking-house,  and  took  their  places  in  the  wherry.  They 
cast  her  loose,  stripped  off  their  jackets,  dipped  their  oars  into 
the  brine,  and  soon  the  little  boat  was  standing  across  the  har- 
bor. The  sea  was  not  running  very  high,  the  rain  having  beaten 
down  the  white  caps,  but  the  swell  was  excessive.  The  night 
was  black  as  pitch,  and  the  wind  rising.  Amabel,  all  alive  to 
the  present,  had  to  resign  the  "  bitter-sweet "  of  meditative  sad- 
ness. All  her  strength  and  attention  were  required  to  keep 
herself  steady.  The  little  boat  heeled  dreadfully  at  times.  The 
swash  of  angry  waters  on  her  keel  was  very  different  from  the 
gently-plashing  sound  which  soothes  the  soul  in  a  pleasure  trip 
about  a  harbor.  Rowing  was  hard  work  in  that  heavy  swell. 
Sometimes  she  seemed  to  mount  upon  a  huge,  smooth  hill  of 
water,  dark  as  the  night,  while  the  light  of  their  one  small  lamp 
fell  on  the  bright  wet  oar-blades ;  a  moment  after  she  was 
plunging  and  surging  in  the  trough  of  the  sea. 

They  had  taken  a  third  man  to  steer ;  he  sat  in  the  stern, 
handling  the  yoke  lines,  and  advised  Amabel  to  lie  down  in 
the  bottom  of  the  wherry. 

The  men  upon  the  thwarts,  though  apparently  intent  on 
bending  to  their  oars,  cast  many  a  furtive  glance  under  their 
brows  at  their  fair  passenger,  and  covered  her  over  with  their 
jackets  to  prevent  her  being  drenched  with  the  driving  spray, 
for  the  rain  having  ceased,  the  waves  began  to  show  their  white 
backs,  as  the  boat  went  dancing  over  the  surge. 

The  wind,  I  said,  was  getting  up,  and  the  rain  ceasing ;  but 
suddenly  the  thunder  was  renewed ;  clap  after  clap,  flash  after 
flash ; — a  sudden  squall  broke  over  them.  The  swell  washed 
over  the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  and  nearly  filled  it  with  water. 
Amabel,  upon  her  knees,  kept  trying  to  bale  it  out  with  a  tar- 
paulin. 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  425 

The  oarsmen  bent  to  their  work,  the  faint  light  of  their  one 
lamp  throwing  its  gleam  ever  and  anon  athwart  their  fixed, 
dark  faces,  with  the  steersman  trying  in  vain  to  steady  the  little 
craft,  and  keep  her  head  before  the  gale,  which  was  their  only 
chance  of  safety,  though  it  should  blow  them  over  the  bar. 
Suddenly  an  exclamation  broke  from  the  bowman.  He  had 
broken  one  of  the  row-locks — there  was  no  longer. any  rest  for 
one  of  the  oars.  In  the  darkness,  the  confusion,  and  the  pitching 
of  the  boat,  he  could  find  no  other,  even  if  another  were  in  the 
locker,  of  which  none  of  the  men  were  sure.  At  the  next 
minute,  a  white  and  dripping  bowsprit  lifted  right  over  their 
heads,  and  the  hull  of  a  huge  ship,  black  as  the  darkness,  drift- 
ed past  them  on  a  rolling  swell.  The  bowman  gave  a  sheer  off 
from  her  quarter. 

" It's  a  frigate,  mates !"  cried  he  ;  "I  made  out  her  ports  in 
the  white  line." 

"  I'm  blessed  if  it  isn't  the  Alcastor  broke  adrift,"  exclaimed 
the  steersman,  "  she  was  only  riding  a  while  ago  at  single  an- 
chor." 

It  was  the  Alcastor,  drifting  before  the  wind,  rolling  her  big 
black  hull  as  helpless  as  a  cask,  now  on  one  side,  then  the  other, 
her  masts  jumping,  yards  and  rudder  creaking,  the  loose  ham- 
per aloft  that  Ned  and  John  had  remarked  upon,  swaying,  as 
she  rolled  from  side  to  side. 

The  terrified  boat  party  watched  the  broad  black  mass,  seem- 
ing to  come  out  from,  and  to  be  a  part  of,  the  darkness,  with  a 
gleam  or  two  from  her  galley  and  the  binnacle,  and  fancied 
they  distinguished  ghostly  faces  peering  above  her  bulwarks ; 
though  above  the  roaring  of  the  tempest,  the  plash  from  the 
scuppers,  and  creaking  of  the  timbers  of  the  ship,  no  human 
voice  made  itself  heard. 

As  the  big  ship  drifted  past,  they  watching  her,  silent  and 
breathless,  the  set  of  the  current  carried  them  under  her  stern. 
A  boat  was  towing  in  her  wake,  and  they  ran  foul  of  the  tow- 
rope,  with  a  force  which  came  near  to  knock  the  head  off  of 
the  steersman,  who  was  standing  up,  watching  the  receding 
danger. 

"  It's  the  provision-boat,"  cried  Amabel,  as  one  of  the  men 


426  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

held  on  a  moment  by  the  line  ;  "  let  me  get  into  it — perhaps 
the  people  on  board  may  haul  me  in !  Dear — dear  men,  I'll 
give  you  all  the  money  I  have ;  only  let  me  get  in  !" 

"  Pity  she  shouldn't  get  on  board,  if  she's  so  sot  on  it,"  said 
one  of  them,  as  she  pulled  out  her  little  purse. 

"  Boat  ahoy  !"  sung  out  a  voice  from  the  poop  of  the  frigate, 
not  a  full,  hearty  naval  voice,  fit  to  be  heard  above  the  battle 
and  the  storm. 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir !  the  Alcastor  ahoy  !"  sung  out  the  steersman, 
into  whose  hand  Amabel  had  put  her  little  purse,  with  the  gold 
of  her  half-year's  salary  shining  through  the  netting.  "  We've 
got  a  lady-passenger  come  off  to  ye,  half  drownded.  Send 
down  a  whip  and  get  her  on  board." 

It  was  never  satisfactorily  explained  how  this  order  on  the 
part  of  the  Portsmouth  wherryman  came  to  be  obeyed  by  the 
men  on  the  poop  of  the  Alcastor,  for  the  orders  of  the  Admiral 
had  been  strict  that  no  one  should  go  on  board  of  her.  I  sup- 
pose, however,  the  boatman,  in  his  hoarse  tones,  spoke  with  a 
voice  of  authority,  and  in  the  disorganized  state  into  which  the 
ship  had  fallen,  with  all  her  officers  dead  or  sick,  except  her 
master's  mate,  and  one  small  reefer,  any  appearance  of  com- 
mand carried  its  weight.  In  five  minutes  down  came  the  whip, 
with  a  small  sail  hooked  on  to  it,  "  looking,"  as  some  one  else 
says,  "  like  a  big  grocer's  scale  dangling  from  the  end  of  the 
spanker-boom  ;"  into  which,  while  the  boat  pitched  and  plunged 
beyond  the  power  of  the  oarsmen  to  steady  it,  and  in  great  dan- 
ger from  any  sudden  stroke  of  the  loose  rudder,  the  steersman 
tumbled  Amabel,  her  basket  and  bag. 

"  Heave  ahead !"  he  cried,  and  the  next  moment,  holding  on 
for  very  life,  Amabel  felt  herself  rising  between  the  sky  and 
water,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  being  canted  out  of  one  corner 
of  the  studding-sail,  or  of  striking  against  the  stern-lights  or 
the  poop-railing.  She  was  pulled  in  with  a  sudden  jerk  by 
several  rough  hands,  and  being  landed  on  the  deck,  so  soon  as 
they  could  release  he'r  from  the  folds  of  the  sail  she  stood 
amongst  them. 

The  men  drew  back  with  sudden  awe.  It  was  a  time  of  su- 
perstition. The  hand  of  death  was  busy  all  around.  The  few 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  427 

left  were  like  the  blades  of  grass  that  here  and  there  escape  the 
sweepings  of  the  scythe. 

Dizzy  and  drenched,  she  stood  silent  in  their  midst,  holding 
fast  bv  the  railing  of  the  poop,  the  light  of  triumph  in  her  eye, 
a  smile  of  thankfulness  upon  her  lip.  The  spirit  of  love  and 
faith  had  made  her  more  than  conqueror  over  death  and  all  his 
terrors.  They  saw  it  glowing  in  her  cheek — they  saw  it  sparkle 
in  her  eye,  as  full  upon  her  face,  defining  its  sweet  outline,  and 
filling  up  its  hollows  by  deep  shadows,  light  gleamed  up  upon 
her  from  the  binnacle. 

There  was  dead  silence  amongst  all  hands  on  the  poop, 
whilst  in  the  white  wake  of  the  frigate,  rising  often  to  a  level 
with  the  stern  windows  on  the  long,  foamy,  rolling  swell,  tossed 
the  frail  wherry  of  the  watermen ;  and  the  spectral  figures  on 
the  frigate's  deck,  who  gathered  about  Amabel,  looking  stead- 
fastly upon  her,  saw  her  face  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an 
angel. 


CHAPTER  IE. 

We  know  not  whither  our  frail  barks  are  borne, 
To  quiet  haven  or  to  stormy  shore  ; 
Nor  need  we  seek  to  know  it,  while  above 
The  tempest,  and  the  water's  angriest  roar, 
Are  heard  the  voices  of  Almighty  love. 

R.  C.  TRENCH. 

THERE  was  silence  for  some  moments  on  the  poop.  The  men 
all  held  aloof.  The  reefer  nudged  the  master's  mate  to  speak, 
the  master's  mate  the  reefer. 

The  big  ship  gave  a  sudden  quiver  from  stem  to  stern. 
"  Hold  on,"  shouted  the  mate.  Amabel  clung  with  both 
hands  to  one  of  the  brass  stanchions  of  the  poop  railing.  The 
officers  sang  out  between  their  hands  some  unintelligible  orders ; 
the  deck  of  the  ship  as  she  plunged  into  the  swell,  looked  like 
a  mighty  slide ;  while  swashing,  dashing,  bursting,  came  a  tre- 
mendous sea  over  her  bulwarks,  washing  everything  before  it, 
rattling  like  stones  upon  her  deck,  and  plashing  down  into  her 


428  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY. 

scuppers.  Amabel  was  carried  off  her  feet  by  the  violence  of 
the  plunge,  and  having  let  go  of  the  stanchion,  rolled  down 
the  ladder  of  the  poop  and  found  herself  both  sorely  drenched 
and  bruised,  struggling  to  catch  hold  of  something  fast  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  binnacle,  while  the  roll  with  which  the 
frigate  righted,  sent  the  helmsman  swinging  to  the  lee  side  of 
the  wheel,  the  wind  shaking  her  big  frame,  and  whistling 
through  among  her  yards ;  her  bulkheads,  timbers,  and  tiller 
ropes  creaking  and  straining. 

The  noise  and  confusion  about  Amabel,  for  some  moments, 
were  more  stunning  than  the  fall.  Before  she  had  recovered 
herself,  a  man  holding  on  with  one  hand  to  different  objects  in 
his  course,  oame  staggering  towards  her,  and  passing  his  strong 
arm  round  her  waist,  helped  her  towards  the  opening  that  led 
down  into  the  cabin,  shoved  back  the  hatch  which  had  been 
slipped  over  to  keep  out  the  sea,  and  put  her  down  below  as 
in  a  place  of  safety. 

It  was  pitch  dark  in  the  place  she  found  herself.  She 
groped,  however,  for  the  handle  of  the  cabin  door,  knowing 
well  the  ways  of  such  places,  from  her  long  acquaintance  with 
ships  in  earlier  days. 

It  was  dark,  and  choking  hot.  Over  head,  the  noise,  the 
creaking  and  confusion,  appeared  to  be  augmenting.  Getting 
hold  of  the  handle  of  the  door,  she  opened  it.  In  place  of  the 
rushing  wind,  salt  and  fresh  from  the  ocean,  there  met  her  a 
close  sickly  air  from  the  cabin,  and  the  faint  gleam  of  olie  pale 
lamp  showed  her  the  interior.  They  had  got  the  dead  lights 
into  the  stern  windows,  but  nothing  else  appeared  to  have  been 
made  fast  before  the  storm.  Every  loose  thing  in  the  place 
was  heaved  and  tumbled  into  a  heap  to  leeward,  chairs,  desks, 
trunks,  and  tables. 

Making  her  way  with  difficulty,  and  with  several  swings  and 
falls,  she  struggled  towards  a  light  in  the  starboard  after-cabin. 
As  she  got  close  to  it,  and  paused,  holding  on  to  the  elected 
dining  table,  the  ship  gave  a  sudden  quiver  and  a  headlong 
plunge.  She  heard  a  voice  moaning  for  water.  The  next 
moment  the  roll  of  the  ship  heaved  her  close  against  a  door. 
She  caught  at  the  lintel  to  steady  herself,  and  looked  in. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  429 

Her  husband  lay  moaning  in  his  cot.  The  dim  light  from 
the  cabin  lamp  fell  on  his  worn,  wan,  sharpened  face.  He 
looked  twenty  years  older  than  when  she  married  him.  All 
the  little  matters  he  had  used  in  health,  were  strewn  about  the 
cabin.  A  few  worn  books  were  swinging  on  a  shelf.  His 
clothes  and  cap,  trumpet,  and  spy-glasses,  were  hanging  upon 
pegs.  There  was  a  small  writing  table  fixed  to  a  bulkhead,  in 
one  compartment  of  which  were  his  chronometers.  They  had 
run  down,  however.  Nobody  had  thought  it  necessary  to  keep 
the  ship's  reckoning  while  she  remained  in  company  with  the 
brig  in  this  distracted  time. 

The  captain  lay  with  his  features  in  sharp  outline ;  his 
knees  drawn  up,  making  an  abrupt  ridge  in  the  white  bedding ; 
his  head  resting  uneasily  against  the  bulkhead.  Some  one  had 
cut  away  much  of  his  long  light  hair  at  the  beginning  of  his 
illness. 

"  Water,"  he  said,  faintly.  But  the  man  who  should  have 
waited  on  him  had  disappeared ;  perhaps  struck  down  by  fever. 

Hanging  on  a  hook  was  a  black  bottle,  made  fast  by  the 
neck,  and  swinging  with  every  plunge  made  by  the  vessel. 
How  it  had  escaped  being  dashed  in  pieces  against  the 
bulkhead  was  a  miracle.  She  got  it  down  to  see  what  it 
contained,  and  fo'und  to  her  great  joy  that  it  was  water. 
Steadying  herself  as  well  as  she  could,  she  passed  one  arm 
under  her  husband's  neck,  and  put  the  bottle  to  his  lips. .  He 
drank  with  a  terrible  eagerness. 

Even  the  clammy  wetness  of  her  drenched  sleeves,  as  she 
touched  him,  seemed  to  be  grateful  from  its  coolness.  He 
looked  her  in  the  face,  as  she  resettled  his  head  upon  his 
pillow,  and  taking  one  of  her  hands  feebly  in  his  own,  he 
pressed  and  patted  it,  calling  her  by  name.  "  Poor  little 
woman — poor  little  Bella !"  She  answered  him  by  tears,  and 
by  warm  kisses  showered  fast  upon  his  hands  and  forehead. 

But  by  the  next  things  that  he  said,  she  found  his  mind 
was  wandering.  He  had  gone  back  in  fancy,  to  the  old  Cedars. 
He  had  strong  local  attachments,  and  his  heart  clung  to  his 
old  home.  He  wanted  to  know  if  all  the  hay  was  cut,  and 
seemed  to  be  planning  improvements. 


430  AMABEL;  A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

"  There  is  a  large  dead  chestnut  yonder,"  said  he,  looking 
full  at  the  lamp,  "  that  ought  to  be  cut  down, — but  the  first 
walk  I  took  with  my  wife  we  went  and  sat  under  its  shadow ;  she 
was  a  pretty  little  thing — my  wife,  and  she  seemed  fond  of  me." 

Then  as  the  vessel  gave  a  sudden  lurch,  which  caused  him 
to  catch  hold  of  her,  and  her  to  cling  to  him,  he  remarked  how 
wet  she  was,  and  again  appeared  to  recognise  her. 

"Is  this  snow?"  he  cried.  "Have  you  come  from  your 
river-bed,  where  none  of  us  could  find  you  ?  '  Commit  his 
body  to  the  deep,'  you  know — will  she  meet  me  dripping  and 
damp  in  my  grave  under  the  sea  ?" 

What  a  night !  what  a  night !  Sometimes  the  sick  man  had 
a  snatch  of  sleep ;  sometimes  he  raved,  and,  when  violent,  a  less 
experienced  nurse  would  have  found  it  hard  to  manage  him. 
Sometimes  he  seemed  to  know  his  wife,  and  talked  quite 
rationally  ;  always,  however,  with  an  entire  want  of  recognition 
of  the  real  circumstances  of  the  occasion.  Sometimes  he  would 
call  out  for  news  about  the  ship, — and  send  orders  to  Ord,  or 
threaten  to  get  up  and  go  on  deck ;  or  repeat  scraps  of  the 
funeral  service,  which  he  had  read  over  so  many  of  his  doomed 
ship's  company  ere  they  were  dropped  alongside. 

Amabel,  during  a  short  broken  doze  he  had,  got  off  her  wet 
clothes,  and  put  on  a  white  wrapper.  She  tried  to  reach  the 
steward's  pantry,  but  the  ship  rolled  heavily  and  she  could  not 
accomplish  it.  So  she  returned  to  her  husband's  side,  and 
sat  steadying  herself  and  watching  him. 

She  sat  quiet ;  strong  in  that  self-reliance  which  hinges  upon 
faith — and  in  the  midst  of  danger  and  of  death,  joy  and  peace 
were  hers.  Her  feet  touched  the  brink  of  the  river  of  death  ;  but 
the  past  of  her  life — that  fatal  past — the  monster  she  herself 
had  assisted  to  create,  which  had  so  long  haunted  her  steps  and 
harassed  while  it  could  not  harm,  viewing  her  at  last  beyond 
its  reach,  ceased  to  pursue  her.  Her  feet  had  glided  swiftly 
over  the  last  strip  of  future  between  her  and  the  dark  river. 
Her  future  lay  in  the  mysterious  Beyond  ! 

Towards  morning  a  man  came  into  the  cabin,  who  looked 
surprised  beyond  measure  to  see  her  there.  She  quietly  accost- 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  431 

ed  him,  begging  him  to  fill  her  water  bottle,  and  to  let  in  day- 
light, if  possible ;  adding,  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  the  woman  who 
came  on  board  last  night." 

From  him  she  learned  that  the  few  well  men  who  were  left, 
assisted  by  the  convalescents,  had  just  managed  to  keep  the 
ship  clear  of  the  land  during  the  night ;  that  they  had  passed 
the  Isle  of  Wight  an  hour  before  dawn,  and  were  driving  and 
drifting  in  a  sou'-south-westerly  course  across  the  Channel.  He 
told  her  that  when  the  Alcastor  was  cruising  off  the  mouths  of 
the  Gambia,  eighteen  of  the  men  had  been  attacked  with  the 
most  fatal  form  of  African  fever.  The  captain  had  run  in  for  a 
small  port  belonging  to  the  Portuguese,  where  the  plague 
spread  rapidly  amongst  both  men  and  officers,  notwithstand- 
ing every  attempt  to  purify  the  vessel.  She  lost  her  surgeon 
and  assistant  surgeon.  Two  thirds  of  her  ship's  company  had 
died  ;  some  manned  the  prize  she  had  made,  which,  under  the 
command  of  Lieutenant  Ord,  was  sent  in  company  with  her  to 
England.  Nearly  a  hundred  of  her  men  were  left  in  a  small 
fort  near  the  Portuguese  settlement,  being  ill  or  convalescent 
at  the  time  of  her  sailing ;  and  the  small  remainder  of  her  crew, 
after  every  precaution  had  been  taken  by  white-washing,  wash- 
ing, and  fumigating  the  vessel,  were  sent  home  in  her  to  Eng- 
land. When  they  were  two  days  out  there  had  appeared  ano- 
ther case  of  fever.  Next  a  self-devoted  surgeon,  who  had 
volunteered  into  her  from  another  ship,  was  struck  down. 
Every  day  some  two  or  three  had  died — till  the  frigate  was  left 
with  a  working  crew  of  twelve  men  and  two  officers  untouched, 
and  fourteen  or  fifteen  fevered  spectral  wretches  who  were 
getting  over  the  disorder. 

The  man,  with  rough  kindness,  gave  Amabel  a  little  camphor 
bag,  which  he  begged  her  to  smell  of,  assuring  her  it  had  kept 
him  safe  during  the  fatal  voyage. 

"  A  little  puff  of  fresh  air  will  do  us  even  more  good,"  she 
said,  and  persuaded  him  to  undo  the  skylight,  and  let  the  breeze 
freshen  the  close  cabin.  The  skylight,  indeed,  as  he  assured 
her,  would  admit  less  air  than  water,  for  the  Alcastor  was  still 
running  under  bare  poles  before  the  gale ;  the  spray  dashing 
over  her  from  taffrail  to  cutwater. 


432  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

As  day  wore  on,  the  gusts  of  wind  held  off,  but  the  sky 
continued  murky.  Once  or  twice  Amabel  made  an  attempt  to 
creep  up  the  companion  ladder,  and  get  a  free  glance  of  sea 
and  sky  on  deck ;  but  failing  in  the  attempt,  she  was  obliged  to 
content  herself  with  such  a  view  of  the  grey  heaving  mass  of 
sea  and  a  firmament  to  match,  as  she  could  obtain  out  of  the 
little  square  stern  window. 

What  happened  all  that  day  above  deck — what  struggles  the 
weak  crew  made  to  manage  the  ship  that  was  running  away 
with  them — what  deeds  of  daring  may  have  been  performed 
under  the  name  of  duty — what  manly  qualities  may  have  shone 
forth — what  powers  of  forethought  and  command — what  disci- 
pline and  obedience — I  am  unable  to  describe,  Amabel  remain- 
ing, as  I  said,  all  day  under  hatches. 

All  the  time  she  hung  about  her  husband  with  that  soft, 
womanly,  endearing  tenderness,  which  all  men  appreciate  in 
sickness,  and  the  sailor  most  of  all.  She  had  a,  French  taste  for 
very  delicate  perfumes,  and  a  fragrance  of  roses  was  always 
wafted  from  her  fingers.  The  captain  seemed  sensible  to  this 
sweetness,  catching  her  hand^  and  pressing  them  frequently  to 
his  parched  face ;  and  seeming  to  be  comforted  and  soothed 
whenever  her  soft  cool  touch  freshened  his  burning  forehead. 

The  heat  of  the  cabin  was  very  great  The  wind  that  came 
down  the  skylight  scarcely  seemed  to  change  or  cool  the  air. 
She  sat  down  by  her  husband's  cot,  fanning  his  flushed  face,  or 
moistening  the  fevered  lips,  now  turning  black,  with  precious 
drops  of  water. 

Again  the  night  came  on,  without  her  starry  crown,  clad  in 
her  deepest  sables. 

The  captain  was  asleep — a  quiet  sleep ;  she  had  fancied  there 
was  moisture  on  his  palms,  and  steadying  herself  beside  his  cot 
she  knelt  down,  and  put  the  thoughts  of  prayer,  which  had  been 
her  support  all  day,  into  words.  "  A  word  to  God  is  a  word 
from  God."  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  found  it  so. 
What  peace  in  the  midst  of  that  confusion — what  light  in  the 
midst  of  the  thick  darkness  of  that  night  were  poured  into  her 
soul! 

As  long  as  light  was  left  she  had  watched  the  ship's  white 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   fl  is  TOUT.  433 

wake  running  zigzag,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  into  the  grey 
heave  astern  of  her.  "  The  course  of  a  life,  with  a  distinct  end 
and  purpose,"  said  her  heart,  "  is  like  the  way  of  a  ship  in  her 
path  on  the  great  waters,  not  straight  forward  on  her  course, 
but  with  many  a  tack  and  counter  tack  helping  her  onward." 

Maurice,  the  sailor,  coming  down  to  light  the  lamp,  found 
her  dozing  about  eight  o'clock,  her  head  supported  against  the 
bulkhead  of  the  cabin. 

He  stood  looking  compassionately  at  her  pale,  worn  face.  In 
sleep  it  was  not  lighted  with  the  smile  of  encouragement  to 
others  that  in  waking  hours  it  almost  always  wore.  In  sleep  her 
features  took  the  expression  stamped  upon  them  by  the  tenor  of 
her  life.  You  read,  as  in  a  book,  a  biography  of  suffering.  And 
silver  threads  already  glistened  on  her  forehead — that  forehead 
which,  in  many  a  memory,  wore  the  golden  halo  of  soft  light 
which  crowns  the  brows  of  martyrs,  saints,  and  angels. 

The  rough  old  foremast-man,  when  he  found  her  asleep, 
gazed  on  her  till  a  correspondent  feeling  came  into  his  heart. 
"  God  bless  her,  and  send  her  away  safe,  whoever  she  may  be," 
said  he,  and  moved  off  to  attend  to  other  duties. 

As  the  second  night  of  the  storm  came  on,  the  wind  con- 
tinued to  increase  after  a  lurid  sunset.  It  was  blowing  great 
guns  by  midnight,  and  the  noise  overhead,  the  creaking  and  the 
clatter,  seemed  deafening. 

All  of  a  sudden,  just  before  dawn,  the  captain  lifted  himself 
up  in  his  cot  and  seemed  to  listen.  There  was  a  moment's  lull. 
Amabel's  ear  caught  afar  a  dull  roaring  sound  unlike  any  of 
the  previous  noises.  Then  overhead  on  deck  she  heard  a  hail 
from  the  young  mate,  too  technical  for  her  to  understand,  ter- 
minating in  the  words  "  the  breakers  /"  Then  came  a  rushing, 
scuffling,  and  confusion  overhead.  The  men  seemed  to  be  set- 
ting a  sail.  But  before  they  had  well  accomplished  it  there 
came  a  roar — a  rush — a  sudden  clap  like  near  and  awful  thun- 
der. The  dark  clouds  of  the  night  were  lifting,  and  looking 
full  into  the  stern  window  was  a  grey  streak  of  dawn,  breaking 
clear  to  the  eastward.  The  roaring  sound  had  been  the  rending 
of  the  canvas.  The  sail  that  they  had  set  flew  sheer  out  of  the 
bolt-ropes.  Then  came  a  sound  of  fluttering  and  crashing; 

19 


434  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

hoarse  cries  and  hurried  orders  upon  deck.  The  ship  careen- 
ing over  on  one  side,  till  the  deck  of  the  cabin  was  at  an  angle 
of  forty-five,  and  everything  in  it  seemed  tumbled  into  a  heap 
together.  The  men  appeared  to  be  trying  to  cut  a  mast  away. 

Another  shock — another  crash  ;  the  great  ship  shivered 
through  her  mighty  frame.  The  mainmast  was  gone  over- 
board. Amabel  heard  the  quick  chopping  of  hatchets  upon 
deck.  She  saw  the  spar,  and  the  rag  of  the  main-top-sail,  drift 
into  the  sparkling  foam  of  the  white  wake,  with  a  drowning 
man  clinging  to  the  yard. 

She  shrieked  and  hid  her  face.  She  was  ready  to  meet 
death,  but  this  was  terrible. 

Captain  Warner,  too,  had  heard  the  crash.  His  earliest  pas- 
sion had  been  for  his  profession.  He  was  a  thorough  sailor. 
Even  delirium  could  not  obliterate  what  to  him  was  second 
nature.  He  knew  at  once  that  the  main-mast  had  gone  over, 
and  sprang  from  his  cot  just  as  the  frigate  righted," after  getting 
rid  of  her  broken  spar.  Just  then  there  came  another  booming 
sound  from  overhead  ;  a  flash  amidst  a  steamy  cloud  of  smoke 
swept  back  along  the  broadside  of  the  vessel.  The  crew  were 
firing  minute  guns. 

Before  Amabel  could  prevent  her  husband,  he  was  making 
his  way  on  deck  in  all  the  strength  of  fever.  Just  as  he  got  to 
the  companion  ladder,  his  wife  following  him,  a  sudden  shock 
threw  them  both  back  into  the  cabin.  The  ship  had  struck — 
the  next  wave  lifting  her  floated  her  still  further  on  the  reef, 
sending  her  down  with  renewed  force  and  a  heavy  crash  on  the 
rocks  again.  Captain  Warner  was  in  a  moment  on  his  feet ;  a 
man  above,  in  answer  to  his  heavy  thumps,  drew  off  the  hatch. 
The  light  of  dawn  broke  in  on  them  at  once,  and  the  sight  of 
such  a  sea !  Foam,  breakers,  surf  on  either  hand,  and  land  on 
the  lee  bow  and  straight  before  them.  It  was  a  bold,  bluff 
coast.  They  were  so  near  inshore  as  to  distinguish  moving 
objects.  The  cliffs  appeared  burning  with  torchlight.  Men, 
women,  children  were  on  foot,  rushing  hither  and  thither  with 
wild,  hoarse,  unintelligible  cries.  They  had  tempted  the  ship 
to  steer  inshore  by  putting  out  false  lights,  and  were  now 
assembled  to  receive  her. 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY  HISTORY.  435 

Amabel  saw  at  once  they  were  upon  the  coast  of  France, 
probably  on  that  of  Brittany ;  for  while  the  savage  wreckers 
watched  the  ship  with  anxious  exultation,  a  priest  in  his  robes, 
his  figure  thrown  into  relief  by  the  glowing  torchlight,  stood  on 
a  high  point  of  rock  above  the  surf,  repeating  aloud  the  service 
for  the  dying. 

Inboard  the  eyes  of  Amabel  first  rested  on  the  crew.  Some 
were  already  lashing  themselves  to  coops  and  spars ;  convales- 
cents looking  like  the  pictures  of  Lazarus  out  of  the  charnel- 
house,  came  feebly  creeping  up  from  berths  below.  Some,  like 
Captain  Warner,  stood  on  deck  in  the  fierce  strength  of  fever. 

The  ship  now  swung  from  side  to  side,  her  decks  working, 
her  beams  breaking.  Fast  on  a  rock,  she  lay  helpless  as  a  log 
in  the  midst  of  the  breakers;  the  sea,  at  every  third  wave, 
making  a  breach  over  her,  each  time  washing  away  some  one 
of  those  on  board.  Their  shrieks  of  despair,  as  they  floated 
away  into  the  raging  surf,  pierced  Amabel's  very  soul.  Mean- 
time the  oaken  decks,  an  hour  before  so  firm  and  tight,  were 
opening  and  shutting  with  every  heave  of  the  tide.  Some  cried 
to  God  for  assistance  and  forgiveness,  other  few  shook  hands 
with  one  another.  Some  tried  to  loose  the  stern  boat  from  the 
davits,  the  only  one  that  could  have  been  got  off,  as  the  ship 
lay  so  high  up  in  the  breakers.  In  the  bewildering  confusion, 
Amabel,  for  a  few  moments,  lost  sight  of  her  husband.  All  at 
once,  just  as  she  missed  him,  he  reappeared  suddenly  at  her 
side. 

"  Come  aft — we  have  but  one  chance  now,"  he  said,  and 
hurrying  her  upon  the  poop,  he  lifted  her  up  before  she  was 
aware.  There  was  a  whizz — a  whirr — a  rush  of  air  about  her 
face ;  he  had  flung  her  clear  of  the  ship,  and  then  sprang  after 
her.  When  she  came  up  he  seized  her  with  a  firm  strong  grasp 
with  one  arm,  with  the  other  he  buffeted  his  way  through  the 
foam  of  the  surf  which  was  rolling  inshore. 


436  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  would  be  thine ! 
Not  passion's  wild  emotion 
To  show  thee,  fitful  as  the  changing  wind, 
But  with  a  still,  deep,  fervent  life  devotion, 
To  be  to  thee  the  helpmeet  God  designed  ; 
For  this  I  would  be  thine  ! 

PHASER'S  MAGAZINE. 

THE  right  arm  of  the  strong  swimmer  sufficed  to  keep  their 
heads  above  the  water,  for  though  the  surf  was  running  high, 
the  set  of  the  current,  and  the  rise  of  the  tide,  were  carrying 
them  in  shore.  On  mighty  rollers  they  were  one  moment  borne 
onward  towards  the  beach,  at  the  next  washed  back  almost  to 
the  wreck  again.  But  each  wave  bore  them  in  a  little  further, 
till  at  last,  tangled  with  floating  sea-weed,  exhausted,  bruised, 
insensible,  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  they  were  washed 
against  a  reef  reaching  far  out  into  the  surf,  where  a  savage 
figure,  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  sail-cloth,  waiting  to  fish  up  its 
prey,  stuck  a  boarding  pike  into  their  clothes,  and  dragged 
them  from  the  water. 

The  Cure  on  the  cliff,  who  had  his  eye  upon  the  prowl- 
ing savage  on  the  reef,  saw  him  drag  the  bodies  from  the  surf, 
turn  them  over,  seem  to  search  for  any  valuables  they  might 
have  secured  upon  their  persons,  and  well  knowing  that  having 
robbed  them,  the  wretch  would  either  leave  them  senseless  on 
the  rocks  to  be  washed  off  by  the  rising  tide,  or  push  them 
back  into  the  boiling  surf,  he  hastened  to  the  beach  at  the  head 
of  a  small  party  of  douaniers. 

By  dint  of  threats  they  got  the  semi-savage,  who  alone  had 
dared  to  tread  the  reef  over  which  the  tide  was  breaking,  to 
drag  ashore  the  bodies.  Raising  them  with  ease  in  his  power- 
ful arms,  and  throwing  them  across  his  shoulder,  he  came  back 
along  the  reef,  steadying  his  steps  upon  the  hidden  rocks  with 
his  old  boarding  pike. 

The  priest  took  them  into  his  own  keeping.    On  opening  her 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  437 

eyes,  Amabel  found  herself  lying  under  a  cliff  upon  dry  sand, 
covered  by  the  old  man's  black  soutane.  Around  her,  men  in 
wide  breeches,  and  slouched  hats,  were  talking  a  harsh  jargon. 
She  roused  herself  as  quickly  as  she  could,  and  starting  up,  cried, 
"  Where  is  he  ?"  Then  seeing  her  husband  lying  at  her  side, 
she  remembered  the  safety  of  others.  Turning  to  the  priest, 
she  made  haste  to  explain  to  him  something  of  their  situation. 

No  people  have  such  an  insane  dread  of  infection  as  the 
French  of  all  classes.  The  custom-house  officials,  startled  and 
confused  by  what  she  told,  heartily  wished  no  other  survivor 
of  the  wreck  might  get  ashore ;  and  by  no  means  blessed  the 
benevolence  of  the  priest  who  had  rescued  these  two  persons 
from  the  tender  mercies  of  Philopen. 

"  Is  there  no  empty  building  here  ?  No  empty  barn  that  we 
could  be  shut  up  in  '?"  suggested  Amabel.  "  It  seems  but  right, 
if  you  will  supply  us  with  necessaries,  that  we  should  keep  a 
quarantine." 

"  There  is  a  usine — a  machine  factory  upon  the  cliff,"  said 
the  priest,  "  belonging  to  an  Englishman." 

"That  will  do,"  said  Amabel.  "Have  him  carried  up 
there."  And  raising  herself,  she  feebly  walked  by  the  side  of 
the  men  who  bare  her  husband.  His  fever  strength  was  now 
all  spent.  His  head  and  limbs  drooped  on  the  arms  of  his 
bearers. 

Amabel  could  still  muster  enough  of  the  harsh  language  of 
Brittany,  to  implore  the  peasants  round  her  to  be  careful  of  her 
husband.  Her  husband  !  She  had  not  dared  to  call  him  so  to 
Maurice  the  old  sailor,  who  had  seen  her  in  his  cabin,  but  she 
dared  to  speak  her  secret  in  the  unknown  tongue,  and  repeated 
the  loved  name  over  and  over.  Her  knowledge  of  their  lan- 
guage won  at  once  upon  the  peasants.  "  She  is  not  a  Saxon," 
they  exclaimed,  using  the  term  by  which  they  designate  the 
English,  "  but  a  poor  Christian." 

The  Breton  peasant  has  a  stoical  resignation  to  the  decrees 
of  fate.  These  men  were  less  alive  to  the  risk  they  ran  than 
their  French  betters;  and  partly  through  the  interest  she 
inspired,  partly  by  the  exercise  of  the  authority  of  the  priest,  a 
sort  of  temporary  hospital  was  established  in  the  empty  factory. 


438  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

A  few  beds  were  brought  in  from  cabins  round  about,  and  piles 
of  sweet  dry  heather.  One  by  one  the  ghastly  bodies  of  the 
drowned  were  carried  up  to  the  factory,  and  some  few  not 
less  ghastly  living  men  were  also  brought  there.  One  or  two 
of  the  doomed  crew  came  up  who  seemed  to  have  escaped 
unharmed. 

All  at  length  who  were  likely  to  be  saved  were  gathered 
together,  and  the  prefet  of  the  district,  who  had  been  summon- 
ed on  so  important  an  occasion,  ordered  the  doors  of  the  build- 
ing to  be  closed. 

From  one  of  the  windows,  Amabel,  after  administering 
relief  to  the  sufferers,  looked  out  upon  the  sea.  She  saw  it 
breaking,  boiling,  bubbling  over  the  rocks  that  edged  the  land. 
The  frigate  lay  on  her  beam  ends,  going  fast  to  pieces.  The 
bay  beneath  the  cliff  looked  more  like  a  vast  inland  lake  than 
like  an  arm  of  the  ocean,  being  shut  in  with  mountains.  She 
watched  the  sea  birds  sweeping  over  it.  She  heard  them  cry 
one  to  another,  as  they  darted  after  objects  floating  on  the 
waves. 

"  As  I  sat  on  the  deep  sea  sand 
I  saw  a  fair  ship  nigh  at  hand, 
I  waved  my  wings,  I  bent  my  beak, 
The  ship  sank,  and  I  heard  a  shriek. 
There  lie  the  sailors  one,  two,  three, 
I  shall  dine  by  the  wild  salt  sea." 

And  she  fancied  each  time  that  they  swept  low  over  the  waves, 
they  might  swoop  to  peck  the  eyes  of  some  poor  fellow  late 
her  shipmate,  floating  swollen  on  the  waters. 

Below,  upon  the  reef,  were  men  and  women,  coming  and 
going,  each  having  his  or  her  portion  of  the  frigate's  spoil. 
She  thought  of  what  Felix  had  often  said  to  her,  "  that  the 
milch  cow  of  the  peasant  of  that  district  was  the  ocean."  Afar 
upon  the  blue  horizon,  where  the  waters  of  the  bay  joined  the 
open  sea,  she  saw  the  light  white  canvas  of  ships  rejoicing  in 
the  lull  of  the  storm. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  day,  the  captain  woke  to  conscious- 
ness. As  his  eyes  wandered  with  a  sort  of  dreamy  wonder 
round  the  spot  in  which  he  found  himself,  and  as  he  tried  to 
connect  his  latest  remembrance  of  time  and  place  with  the 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  439 

strange  scene,  his  gaze  rested  on  his  wife,  and  became  fixed 
there.  He  had  a  vague  impression  of  the  events  of  the  past 
night,  and  of  her  actual  bodily  presence ;  such  an  impression  as 
is  left  on  a  susceptible  imagination  by  a  very  vivid  dream. 

It  was  pleasant,  in  his  weakness,  to  have  her  tranquil  femi- 
nine figure  within  the  range  of  his  vision.  He  feared  the 
soothing  apparition  would  disappear.  A  tear  fell  on  her  lap. 
Just  then  she  turned  her  face.  He  saw  it  full.  A  gentle, 
tearful  face,  full  of  a  tender  anxiety ;  upon  whose  lines  one 
seemed  to  view  the  trace 

Of  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago. 

The  rounded  beauty  of  her  cheek  was  gone.  The  glitter,  glow, 
and  sparkle  of  the  sunshine  of  her  life  had  passed  away  for 
ever ;  but  the  impression  he  received  from  what  he  saw  was 
scarcely  one  of  pain.  Change  he  noticed  in  her  face,  but  not 
decay.  It  had  acquired  a  new  beauty — the  still,  calm  beauty 
of  a  summer  twilight.  A  beauty  so  serene,  that  as  he  gazed, 
it  seemed  to  send  a  subduing,  soothing,  holy  influence  into  his 
soul.  Her  figure  still  retained  its  grace.  The  turn  of  her 
head,  as  she  sat  in  thought,  was  such  as  could  be  hers  alone. 
The  sunlight  fell  upon  her  through  a  small  lucarne  in  the  rough 
wall,  and  the  beams  that  played  about  her,  made  misty  by  the 
motes  and  dust  that  filled  the  place,  made  a  sort  of  golden  halo 
about  her  hair. 

At  last  a  groan  from  a  sick  sailor  roused  her.  The  captain 
watched  her  as  she  tenderly  waited  on  the  sufferer,  writhing  on 
his  bed  of  fern  and  heather.  Even  to  him  her  presence  seemed 
to  bring  a  holy  influence.  The  captain  heard  him  invoke 
heaven's  blessing  on  her  head. 

As  she  came  back  to  his  side,  he  closed  his  eyes,  but  felt  her 
cool  hand  gently  laid  upon  his  forehead.  He  felt  the  influence 
of  her  soft  loving  look.  He  felt  her  bending  over  him.  He 
felt  her  long,  warm,  fervent  kiss  pressed  cautiously  upon  his 
face,  and  as  she  kissed  him,  she  felt  herself  drawn  gently 
down — drawn  down — and  the  warm  fond  pressure  that  she 
gave,  returned  upon  her  forehead.  She  heard  him  say  some- 


440  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

thing  nearly  inarticulate,  but  she  distinguished  the  words  "  MY 
WIFE  !" 

Oh !  blessed  words  !  Oh !  triumph — victory  at  last !  He 
has  surrendered  to  her  love  !  Drawing  her  down  nearer — 
nearer  to  his  heart,  she  heard  him  add,  "  Can  all  the  past,  my 
dearest,  be  forgiven  ?"  She  did  not  answer  him  by  words,  but 
by  the  kisses  that  she  rained  upon  his  lips.  Kisses  fervent  and 
ardent — the  expression  of  her  soul.  He  drew  her  down  upon 
the  bed,  and  made  her  sit  beside  him. 

"  To  every  time  there  is  a  season,  and  a  time  for  every  pur- 
pose under  the  sun."  A  time  for  happy,  quiet  acquiescence  in 
the  tenor  of  events — as  well  as  a  time  for  the  exhibition  of 
emotion.  Amabel  was  afterwards  astonished  tor  find  how 
quietly  her  relations  with  her  husband  had  been  altered  ;  how 
noiselessly  the  crisis  of  her  life  had  been  passed  through.  The 
rolling  surf  which  dashed  her  over  the  bar,  into  the  quiet  haven 
she  so  long  had  tried  to  reach,  had  brought  her  in  one  moment 
into  still  and  sheltered  waters.  The  captain  was  too  weak  to 
make  it  safe,  at  such  a  moment,  to  excite  him ;  indeed,  the  brain 
of  man  after  emerging  from  unconsciousness,  is  more  susceptible 
of  sensations  of  complacent  happiness,  than  of  turbulent  emo- 
tion, whether  of  joy  or  pain. 

After  a  little  time, — a  little  talk  incoherent  and  happy,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  endeavoured  to  express  how,  day  by  day, 
by  slow  degrees,  through  no  particular  representation  or  event, 
but  from  the  combination  of  all  testimonies  in  her  favor,  his 
opinion  of  her  had  been  changed, — confessing  he  had  been 
unjust,  pleading  none  of  the  excuses  for  his  conduct  that  might 
have  been  urged — Amabel  disengaged  the  hand  he  held  in 
his,  and  smoothing  his  rough  pillow,  went  off  to  a  stove  in  one 
corner  of  the  room,  and  brought  him  a  cup  of  something  she  had 
prepared.  She  sat  upon  the  bed,  assisting  to  prop  him  up,  and 
holding  the  cup,  tempting  him  to  eat,  with  a  flush  upon  her 
cheeks,  but  triumph  brimming,  dancing,  sparkling  in  her  eyes. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ? — it  is  very  good,  my  dear,"  said 
Captain  Warner. 

"  Made  it,"  said  Amabel,  with  a  laugh  and  a  blush,  catching 
his  eye.  "  Did  you  think  your  little  wife  too  silly  to  improve  ? 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  441 

Do  you  expect  to  find  me  still  as  inefficient  and  inexperienced 
as  I  used  to  be  at  home  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  Captain,  "  the  dear  old  Cedars ! — shall  I  see 
it  again  ?  If  God  spares  us,  little  woman,  we  will  go  and  live 
again  at  the  old  Cedars." 

"  Leonard,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  pause — "  I  have  gained 
immeasurably  in  experience.  I  have  grown  quite  an  accom- 
plished country  lady.  I  can  do  everything  to  be  expected  of 
your  wife,  except  electioneer." 

In  talk  like  this  a  happy  hour  swiftly  passed.  Then  Ama- 
bel looked  at  her  watch,  which,  though  torn  from  her  side  by 
the  wrecker  on  the  reef,  the  exertions  of  the  Cure  had  restored 
to  her,  touched  the  spring  of  the  case,  showed  her  husband  the 
"  Amabel  Warner"  he  had  had  engraved  there,  and  pressed 
the  name  to  her  lips,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile.  Captain  War- 
ner replied  by  kissing  her  left  hand,  which  lay  upon  the 
coverlid,  remarking,  as  he  did  so,  and  as  she  laid  him  back 
upon  his  pillow,  how  much  too  large  her  wedding  ring  had 
grown  for  her  slight  finger.  Still  holding  his  wife's  hand 
clasped  in  both  his  own,  he  sank  at  length  into  a  quiet 
slumber. 

Amabel  had  not  a  great  while  sat  quiet  by  his  side,  com- 
muning with  her  agitated  heart,  and  wrapt  in  happy  dreams, 
when  she  was  roused  by  a  groan  from  one  of  the  poor  fellows 
saved  off  the  wreck,  and  disengaging  her  hand  from  her  sleep- 
ing husband's  grasp,  "  prompt  at  every  call,"  she  went  up  to 
his  low  couch,  and  found  the  hand  of  death  appeared  to  be 
upon  him.  "  If  I  had  only  the  priest !"  he  said,  in  broken 
English.  He  was  a  foreign  sailor — a  Roman  Catholic,  and  the 
thought  of  dying  unconfessed,  disturbed  his  dying  hour. 

The  voice  of  the  Cure  was  heard  outside  the  building,  and 
Amabel  looked  out,  and  told  him  of  his  penitent. 

"  I  will  <:<  me  in  and  confess  him,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Will  it  not  do  as  well,"  said  Amabel,  "  if  you  stand  outside, 
and  I  interpret  his  confession  ?  He  can  speak  no  language 
that  is  known  to  you." 

But  the  Cur£  was  not  one  of  a  class  disposed  to  slight  a 
duty.  He  persisted  in  entering  the  infected  factory,  and 

19* 


442  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY  HISTORY. 

though  it  would  have  been  quite  in  accordance  with  the  prac- 
tice of  his  church  to  receive  the  man's  confession  in  a  tongue 
unknown  to  him,  the  sick  man,  finding  Amabel  could  speak  his 
native  tongue,  seemed  inclined  to  retain  her  as  an  interpreter. 

He  was  a  Maltese,  and  had  at  one  time  been  a  devout  Catho- 
lic. His  affairs  had  prospered  in  the  days  of  his  piety ;  he  had 
been  master  or  patron  of  a  speronara.  But  misfortune  had 
overtaken  him  ;  he  had  been  reduced  to  a  mere  fisherman,  and 
had  been  pressed  by  the  captain  of  an  English  man-of-war. 
Since  then  he  had  continued  to  serve  in  the  British  navy.  The 
most  important  item  in  the  confession  that  he  made  was  a  tale 
of  robbery.  It  was  the  first  sin  unconfessed,  and  he  dated  all  his 
irreligion  and  his  fall  from  its  commission.  One  night,  while 
master  of  his  boat,  and  running  with  cattle  from  Sicily  to  Malta, 
he  had  been  called  alongside  an  English  sloop-of-war,  and  had 
a  young  Frenchman  put  on  board  of  him,  with  orders  to  take 
him  into  Malta  harbor.  The  devil,  he  said,  had  incited  him, 
the  prisoner  being  tightly  bound,  to  search  his  person,  and 
secure  his  purse,  which  contained  so  large  a  sum  of  money, 
that  he  began  to  be  afraid  that  the  theft  would  not  escapo 
notice  if  brought  to  the  knowledge  of  the  English  authorities. 
He  was  tempted  to  cut  his  prisoner's  throat,  but  was  not  har- 
dened enough  for  murder.  He  contented  himself  with  robbing 
him  of  all  he  had  about  him,  and  a  large  Spanish  storeship 
passing  him  at  dawn,  he  went  on  board  of  her,  and  delivered  up 
the  Frenchman. 

"  What  did  you  take  from  him  besides  his  puree  ?"  cried 
Amabel. 

"  Nothing  of  any  consequence.  His  papers  I  threw  over- 
board. I  kept  a  large  sharp  knife.  He  was  a  handsome  young 
man,  with  a  small  dog." 

"  And  the  knife  ? — was  it  marked  F.  G.  ?  What  became  of 
it  ?"  said  Amabel,  forgetting  entirely  the  priest  to  whom  she 
should  have  acted  as  interpreter. 

"  I  sold  it  at  Cabrera  after  I  was  pressed  to  a  young  Corsi- 
can  soldier." 

Thus  strangely  Amabel  learned,  ten  years  after  the  event,  the 
history  of  the  tragedy  of  her  early  lover.  She  remembered  that 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  443 

Col.  Ferdinand  had  mentioned  having  put  to  death  one  of  two 
Corsicans,  who  had  pursued  him  at  Cabrera  into  the  craggy 
hills,  and  doubted  not  that  Felix  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  ven- 
detta, that  Corsican  custom  which  avenges  the  blood  of  the 
murdered,  by  that  of  a  relation  of  the  murderer. 

She  had  years  ago  acquitted  her  husband,  in  her  heart, 
of  all  knowledge  of  the  fate  of  poor  Felix,  but  it  was  a  satisfac- 
tion to  her  mind,  to  know,  at  last,  how  the  sad  tragedy  had 
happened. 

The  poor  fellow  by  whose  confession  she  thus  strangely 
learned  the  truth,  died  shortly  after  receiving  absolution. 
"When  all  was  over,  and  the  corpse  was  decently  composed 
upon  its  bed  of  heather,  she  went  back  to  her  husband,  and  sat 
down  by  his  side.  A  few  moments  after  came  a  loud  alarum 
from  without. 

"  Open  the  door,  some  of  you,"  cried  a  jolly  English  voice. 
«  Open  the  door." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  Englishmen  who  own  the  place,"  said  the 
priest  raising  his  head  from  his  Breviary. 

"  You  had  better  not  come  in,  gentlemen,"  said  Amabel, 
going  to  the  window,  which  was  her  post  of  observation. 
"  Who  are  you  ?  Who  are  you  ?"  she  cried,  as  she  caught  sight 
of  the  faces  of  two  men  before  the  door. 

"  We  are  relations  of  Madame  la  Proprietaire,  who  has  mar- 
ried an  Englishman,  and  are  her  agents  on  this  property." 

"  But  your  names,  gentlemen !  Your  names !"  she  cried. 
«  Say  quickly." 

"  This  gentleman's  name  is  Dr.  Glascock.  Mine,  at  your 
service,  is  Sibbes." 

"Uncle  Sibbes!  Doctor  Glascock!  Is  this  fairy  land?" 
she  cried.  "  I  am  Amabel !  Mrs.  Warner !  Do  neither  of  you 
know  me  ?" 

"  By  Jove  !  I  hardly  should,"  exclaimed  her  uncle.  "  Open 
the  door,  Belle.  Let's  have  a  full  view." 

Doctor  Glascock  took  her  hand  in  his  with  the  pressure  of  a 
vice,  and  trembled  all  over  as  he  did  so.  Her  Uncle  Sibbes 
kissed  her,  saying  that  contagion  was  a  humbug.  And  so 
indeed  it  proved. 


.444  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

They  were  on  the  lands  of  the  old  Karnacs ;  not  above  half 
a  mile  from  the  chateau  of  the  Viscount,  her  father.  Ferdinand 
Guiscard,  who  had  visited  Malta,  and  knew  all  her  friends,  had, 
on  his  death-bed,  made  a  will  bequeathing  this  property  to  Dr. 
Glascock  and  to  Mr.  Sibbes,  to  have  and  to  hold  in  trust  for  the 
sole  benefit  of  Amabel.  The  news  of  this  bequest  arrived  as 
they  were  setting  off  for  England.  They  had  taken  Brittany  in 
their  way  through  France,  and  were  engaged  in  putting  the 
property  in  order  before  going  in  search  of  the  legatee. 

They  insisted  on  Amabel's  going  directly  to  bed  in  a  neigh- 
boring cottage.  In  vain  she  protested  that  she  wished  to 
watch  beside  her  husband.  They  said  she  had  too  long  been 
independent,  and  must  now  learn  to  obey.  They  promised, 
when  the  captain  woke,  to  move  him,  too,  into  the  cottage. 

She  threw  herself  upon  the  bed  of  the  peasants  who  owned 
the  little  hut,  and  fell  asleep  immediately.  When  she  woke 
the  next  morning,  after  many  hours'  sleep,  persons  were  talking 
in  English  in  the  kitchen.  They  were  apparently  at  breakfast. 
She  started  up,  shocked  at  her  long  repose ;  but  nature  had 
been  exhausted  after  her  nights  and  days  of  watching.  As  she 
opened  the  door  of  her  sleeping  room,  the  first  person  upon 
whom  her  eyes  fell  was  Theodosius  Ord. 

"  Where  is  my  husband  ?"  was  the  first  question  she  asked 
him. 

"  Safe  in  the  Cure's  house,  and  very  glad  just  now  to  hear 
that  you  were  sleeping.  I  have  been  sitting  with  him  since  I 
arrived." 

"  But  where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

"  My  little  brig  was  sent  off  in  pursuit  of  the  Alcastor ;  and, 
by  the  way,  both  Ned  and  John  are  here.  I  sent  ashore  for 
volunteers,  and  they  came  with  me  by  special  permission  of  the 
Admiral.  I  am  going  to  send  off  a  messenger  to  the  Admi- 
ralty in  about  an  hour.  He  is  to  take  the  Malle  Poste  at 
Brest,  and  get  over  to  Portsmouth  by  way  of  Havre.  If  you 
have  anything  for  him  to  take  you  had  better  get  it  ready." 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  445 


CHAPTER  V. 

When  seven  long  years  had  comit  and  fled, 
When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead, 
When  scarce  was  rememberit  Kilmeny's  name, 
Late — late  in  ane  gloamin'  Kilmeny  cam  name. 

HOGG.    Bonny  Kilmeny. 

A  BREAKFAST  cloth  is  spread  in  the  small  parlor  of  a  lodging- 
house  at  Portsmouth.  It  is  nine  o'clock — that  most  convenient 
of  all  hours  for  the  first  greeting  of  a  family,  and  the  first 
gathering  for  the  day.  Katie  Warner  is  standing  by  the  table, 
examining  the  columns  of  the  morning  paper  with  a  sicken- 
ing heart,  and  with  a  trembling  hand.  In  a  chair  beside  her 
sits  Horace  Vane ;  upon  his  upturned  face  is  an  expression  of 
intense  anxiety,  though  he  is. speaking  words  of  hope — proving, 
as  he  has  already  proved  a  hundred  times  before  to  all  who 
heard  him,  that  the  Alcastor  must  be  safe,  without  a  doubt,  and 
all  be  well  on  board.  Not  that  in  his  secret  heart  he  believes 
what  he  is  saying,  any  more  than  do  those  many  friends  who 
come  daily  to  the  house,  and  speak  about  the  chance  of  Captain 
Warner's  safety  to  his  daughter.  When  the  pity  of  the  com- 
munity is  excited  on  behalf  of  persons  over  whose  heads  some 
terrible  calamity  is  impending,  the  sufferer  is  always  approached 
with  words  of  hope,  never,  or  rarely,  with  those  of  prepa- 
ration. 

Every  kind  of  impossible  conjecture  was  ventured  as  to  the 
fate  of  those  on  board  the  Alcastor ;  every  rumor  that  could  be 
dressed  into  a  hopeful  sign  was  treated  as  encouragement. 
And,  though  there  were  moments  when  Kate  and  Horace  could 
only  clasp  each  other's  hands,  and  mingle  their  tears  together, 
in  general  they  assisted  the  delusions  of  their  comforters,  partly 
because  it  is  so  hard  to  crush  the  life  out  of  a  hope,  and  partly 
because  Annie  Talbot,  who  had  been  taken  home  by  them,  on 
the  first  news  of  Amabel's  departure,  was  so  cast  down  and 
dispirited,  that  they  were  glad  to  resort  to  any  expedients  to 
give  her  a  good  heart,  if  only  for  a  time. 


446  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

She  entered  the  room,  pale  and  unrefreshed  by  her  rest 
during  the  night,  and  held  out  her  hand  nervously  for  the 
newspaper. 

"There*!?  nothing  in  it,  dear,"  said  Katie  Warner.  "The 
good  news  was  not  to  be  expected  so  soon,  you  know." 

Nevertheless  Annie  seized  the  paper  with  an  eager  hand, 
and  as  she  studied  its  close  columns  with  an  anxious  face,  Miss 
Taylor  came  in  to  the  breakfast  parlor. 

"  Cheer  up,  my  dears,"  said  she,  "  Theodosius  has  gone  after 
them.  I  am  sure  we  have  every  confidence  that  Theodosius 
will  do  all  that  man  can  do  to  save  them.  They  may  have 
been  dismasted, — may  be  lying-to  at  sea  to  put  new  masts  into 
the  ship ;  and  you  know  if  they  cannot  rig  new  masts  they 
won't  be  able  to  get  home  very  rapidly.  A  ship  can't  get  along 
at  the  rate  of  many  knots  an  hour  without  sails.  Keep  up  your 
hearts,  my  dears." 

"  Oh !  but  they  may  be  all  dead,"  sighed  Annie.  "  I  heard 
Mr.  Ord  once  read  the  Ancient  Mariner ;  and  I  saw  them  before 
me  just  like  that  in  a  dreadful  dream  last  night — the  corpses 
swollen,  with  their  eyes  open." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it,  my  dear.  I'll  be  bound  they  are  all 
well  by  now,"  said  Miss  Taylor.  She  was  the  only  person  in 
the  group  who  really  believed  her  own  assertions.  She  clung 
tenaciously  to  her  hope,  which  by  no  means  resembled  an 
anchor,  but  might  rather  be  typified  by  a  ship's  wheel,  which 
had  as  many  spokes  as  there  were  points  in  the  compass  to  lay 
hold  of. 

"  Let  us  pray,"  said  Katie  Warner,  standing  by  the  table 
with  the  book  of  prayer. 

There  was  no  direct  allusion  made  in  the  course  of  that  home- 
service  to  the  subject  that  engrossed  them  ;  but  whenever  any- 
thing was  said  about  that  confidence  in  the  love  and  mercy  of 
God  "  which  hath  great  recompense  of  reward,"  Katie's  voice 
became  more  fervent,  and  Horace's  heart  beat  in  response  to 
hers. 

They  had  risen  from  their  knees,  and  drawn  around  the 
table,  when  there  was  a  loud  ringing  at  the  door-bell ;  and  the 
servant  girl  coming  in,  stated  that  a  man  outside  wanted  to  see 


AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  447 

one  of  the  ladies.  Miss  Taylor  went  out,  and,  in  a  moment 
after,  rushed  back  into  the  breakfast-room,  holding  out  a  letter 
to  Katie,  and  throwing  herself  half-frantic  upon  Annie's  neck 
with  tears  and  kisses. 

"  Is  it  over  ?  Is  it  the  worst  ?"  cried  Horace  and  Katie  in 
one  breath.  "  God  comfort  us  !  Oh !  Annie  dear — poor  little 
Annie !" 

"  It  isn't  that  at  all !— it  isn't  that !  They  are  safe !— safe ! 
— safe !"  cried  Miss  Taylor,  performing  an  awkward  kind  of 
war-dance  round  the  table. 

"  Safe !  safe !"  cried  they.  "  Safe — safe !  May  God  be  praised ! 
How  is  it  ?  Where  are  they  ?" 

"  You  don't  suppose  I  asked  ?"  cried  out  Miss  Taylor,  as  soon 
as  she  could  be  brought  to  hear.  "  He  said  safe.  That  was 
enough.  I  did  not  ask  the  fellow  who  he  was.  I  took  the 
letter." 

Katie  was  standing  reading  it,  with  her  lips  parted  and  her 
face  in  a  glow. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  all  too  full — too  full  of  eveiy  kind  of  happiness !" 
she  exclaimed,  laying  it  down.  And,  throwing  herself  upon  a 
chair,  she  burst  into  tears. 

By  this  time  the  good  news  had  spread,  and  the  servants 
came  running  up  to  see  how  they  bore  it.  Friends  too,  hoping 
to  be  the  first  with  their  glad  tidings,  were  pouring  in  messages 
at  the  door. 

Katie,  again  snatching  up  her  letter,  and  pressing  it  with 
kisses  to  her  lips,  proposed  to  read  it  to  the  household. 

"  MY  DEAREST  KATIE  : 

"Your  dear  father  is  alive,  and  in  a  fair  way  of  recovery. 
He  sends  you  his  love,  and  desires  me  to  tell  you  that  we  hope 
in  a  few  clays  to  be  with  you.  We  have  been  wrecked  off  the 
coast  of  Brittany,  where  all  sorts  of  wonderful  adventures  have 
befallen  us,  which  I  cannot  now  particularize.  Your  dear 
father  saved  me  in  his  arms — and  Katie,  my  dear  child,  I  am 
the  happiest  of  the  happy  ! 

"  Your  affectionate  Mother, 

"AMABEL  WARNEK, 


448  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   BISTORT. 

"  P.S. — Since  writing  the  above,  your  dear  father  has  waked 
up,  refreshed  and  like  himself  again.  He  wishes  you  to  get 
the  Cedars  in  good  order,  and  to  be  there,  all  of  you,  to  receive 
us.  In  less  than  three  weeks  we  shall  be  at  home  !  Please  to 
communicate  this  letter  to  dear  Annie.  Theodosius  returns 
almost  immediately  to  England.  You  will  see  him  in  a  few 
days." 

"  Amabel  Warner !"  cried  Katie,  repeating  the  name  over 
and  over,  "  Amabel  Warner !  How  well  it  sounds !  She  has 
signed  it  boldly  in  large  letters.  Theodosius  will  be  so  glad  of 
this.  Horace,  in  a  few  days  we  shall  have  him  home !" 

When  Theodosius  did  arrive,  he  brought  all  manner  of  good 
news  with  him.  Captain  Warner  was  recovering — so  were  all 
the  survivors  of  the  wreck  of  the  Alcastor.  Amabel,  notwith- 
standing her  anxiety  and  watching,  was  in  perfect  health  and 
brilliant  spirits.  They  were  to  come  home  by  way  of  Paris, 
where,  to  use  the  Captain's  phrase,  she  was  to  be  fitted  out 
with  all  manner  of  new  rigging. 

Probably  she  was  well  aware,  by  this  time,  that  a  handsome 
toilette,  lively  persiflage,  and  a  gay  manner,  were  more  suited 
to  her  husband's  taste  than  pensive  brooding  over  past  grief 
or  present  joy. 

"So  little  Miss  Warner  has  come  down  here,"  said  the 

wife  of  Dr.  R to  her  husband,  the  rector  of  the  parish  in 

which  the  Cedars  stands.  "  I  hear  the  captain  has  taken  back 
his  wife,  and  is  going  to  bring  her  home  again.  What  had  I 
better  do  about  calling  ?  It  will  be  very  awkward,  my  dear." 

Dr.  R having  no  answer  at  hand,  and  being  unable  to 

gainsay  the  fact  that  there  was  something  very  awkward  in 
Mrs.  Warner's  return,  continued,  without  lifting  his  eyes,  to 
pore  over  a  large  folio  which  he  had  taken  down  from  one  of 
the  shelves  of  his  library. 

"  I  was  thinking,  dear,"  continued  Mrs.  R ,  who  was  over- 
come with  curiosity  to  know  what  manner  of  things  had  been 
in  preparation  for  a  week  past  at  the  Cedars,  "  that  perhaps  it 
would  be  best  if  I  were  to  call  upon  Miss  Warner  before  they 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  449 

come.  I  pity  her  with  all  my  heart,  poor  thing !  And  I  think 

the  Captain  is Well,  I  knew  her  poor  mother,  and  should 

like  to  give  her  my  advice.  She  shall  always  find  me  her  friend." 

The  doctor  having  started  no  objection  to  this  call,  Mrs. 
R took  the  first  step  in  the  exercise  of  her  benevolent  inte- 
rest in  Katie  Warner,  and  set  out  for  the  Cedars  towards  the 
middle  of  the  day. 

All  was  bustle  and  preparation  in  the  grounds,  where  gar- 
deners and  laborers  were  raking,  mowing,  clipping,  rolling,  and 
bringing  everything  into  trimness  and  repair. 

Mrs.  R was  shown  into  the  library,  where  she  sat  in  the 

arm  chair  of  her  late  friend,  Mrs.  Warner,  calculating  whether 
it  had  been  good  economy  to  cut  up  the  old  Turkey  carpet  in 
the  dining-room,  to  fit  the  library. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  Katie  came  in  tripping  and 
smiling,  with  her  hand  held  out,  and  many  apologies  to  Mrs. 

R for  her  appearance,  but  she  was  "  really  so  busy.  Papa 

and  mamma  were  expected  so  soon." 

"  Has  your  father  entirely  got  well,  my  dear  ?"  said  Mr*. 

R ,  quite  stiffly,  avoiding  any  recognition  of  the  existence 

of  a  step-mother. 

"Mamma  writes  word  he  is  getting  up  his  strength,"  said 
Katie.  "  Is  not  the  whole  thing  like  a  miracle,  Mrs.  R ?" 

At  this  moment  Theodosius,  not  aware  that  company  was  in 
the  house,  called  to  Katie  from  the  garden.  She  rose  and 
spoke  to  him  through  the  window  for  a  moment,  then  turning 

to  Mrs.  R ,  said,  "  You  are  a  great  horticulturist — will  you 

give  us  some  hints  about  forming  a  rose  garden  ?  I  want  roses 
of  all  kinds  near  the  house,  especially  the  old-fashioned,  fra- 
grant, Provence  roses,  mamma  is  so  very  fond  of  them." 

"  You  must  have  a  good  memory,"  said  Mrs.  R .  "  You 

were  but  a  little  girl  when — when  she  was  here  before." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Katie,  with  a  look  of  surprise,  "  I  have  lived  with 
her  and  known  her  since  then,  Mrs.  R .  We  were  toge- 
ther at  Brighton  and  at  Sandrock,  all  the  year  before  last,  you 
know." 

"  Were  you,  indeed  !"  said  Mrs.  R .  "  Really !  How  very 

strange,  my  dear !  I  did  not  know  .... 


450  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

Before  this  sentence  was  finished,  Miss  Taylor  bustled  in,  inter- 
rupting Mrs.  R . 

"  Mrs.  R, ,  Aunt  Taylor,"  said  Katie,  secretly  ashamed  of 

the  crooked  wig,  the  tumbled  cap,  the  venerable  pair  of  ex- 
white  gloves,  and  the  rusty,  black  stuff  apron. 

"  Happy,  ma'am,  to  see  you,"  said  Miss  Taylor,  rolling  up  in 
her  queer  way,  and  shaking  hands.  "Excuse  my  working 
dress,  but  I  was  just  moving  the  furniture  in  Mrs.  Warner's 
room.  Kitty,  my  dear,  you  understand  exactly  what  will  suit 
your  mamma.  And  about  that  picture  with  the  yew  trees 
which  you  and  Theodosius  Ord  have  brought  with  you,  my 
dear,  where  is  it  to  be  hung  ?  Go  up,  and  see  what  is  going 
on,  while  I  sit  here  awhile  and  rest,  and  talk  to  Mrs.  R ." 

A  week  later,  on  a  Thursday  evening  in  the  twilight,  Theo- 
dosius Ord  and  Katie  are  walking  down  the  avenue.  They 
have  given  their  last  look  at  every  room,  the  last  touches  to 
the  vases  of  cut  flowers,  their  last  glance  at  the  dining-table, 
set  out  with  an  unusual  display  of  plate.  They  have  entreated 
Annie  Talbot  not  to  suffer  Miss  Taylor  to  disarrange  their  pre- 
parations, and,  though  it  is  some  time  before  the  carriage  is 
expected,  they  have  gone  out  arm  in  arm  to  wait  at  the  park 
gates,  and  be  the  first  to  give  them  welcome. 

Theodosius  has  been  kept  in  such  an  excitement  of  prepara- 
tion, nailing  carpets,  hoeing  flower  beds,  putting  up  window 
curtains — lending  a  hand,  in  fact,  wherever  a  supernumerary 
could  be  employed,  that  he  has  not  had  time  to  think  of  senti- 
ment— not  retrospective  sentiment  at  least ;  and  Katie  has 
looked  up  to  him  in  everything.  Miss  Taylor's  judgment  was 
not  to  be  relied  on,  and  somehow  Horace's  opinion  was  of 
no  importance  when  brought  into  competition  with  that  of 
Cousin  Do. 

Her  little  hand  is  lying  now  upon  my  father's  arm.  He  has 
put  his  hand  over  it,  and  holds  it  there.  Her  eyes  are  down- 
cast. Her  face  is  shy  and  pensive.  She  is  listening  with  a 
painful  interest  to  what  he  says  to  her.  She  half  feels  as  if 
she  ought  not  to  hear  such  a  story  from  his  lips.  Yet  she  has 
confidence.  He  could  not  tell  her  what  she  ought  not  to  hear. 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTOKY.  451 

He  is  speaking  about  Amabel ; — the  sorrows  of  her  married 
life — the  causes  of  the  separation.  And  Katie  pities  all  by 
turns.  How  can  she  blame  her  father  ?  How  can  she  blame 
the  friend  and  mother  she  respects  and  loves  ?  There  is  a  little 
embarrassment  about  her  manner ;  for  she  has  two  suspicions. 
She  is  beginning  to  guess  the  state  of  her  own  heart.  She  is 
frightened  at  a  feeling  she  detects  there. 

And  Theodosius ! — can  he  have  loved  her  mother  \  Is  love 
never  got  over  ? — never  transferred  ? 

As  she  is  so  thinking,  the  small  hand  on  his  sleeve  begins  to 
shrink,  but  he  holds  it  all  the  tighter,  looking  with  a  smile  into 
her  eyes. 

They  sit  down  by  the  gate,  on  the  dry  turf  under  a  tall 
cedar.  And  still  he  smiles  and  looks  under  the  bonnet  which 
she  tries  to  turn  away.  He  begins  to  speak  of  Amabel  at 
length  as  his  first  love.  The  little  hand  drops  from  his  side. 
He  is  telling  her  all  that  I  have  written  in  the  third  part  of  this 
narrative,  and  Katie,  trembling  and  tearful  when  he  first  began, 
gains  courage  to  insinuate  her  sympathy,  ventures  to  lay  her 
hand  again  on  his.  There  is  nothing  she  can  say,  or  that  she 
ought  to  say.  He  takes  the  little  hand. 

"  You  are  sorry  for  me,  Cousin  Kate  ?" 

"  So  sorry." 

"  It  was  a  dark  time,  Katie,  in  my  life." 

"  Very  dark.  Only — may  I  say  what  I  think — dear  Cousin 
Do  ?  Ought  you  not ?" 

"  Ought  I  not  what  ?  Speak  frankly,  Cousin  Kate.  Don't 
be  afraid  to  give  me  your  advice.  Go  on." 

"  To  conquer  such  an  attachment.  It  will  be  very  hard,  I 
know,  at  first.  But  strength  comes  with  the  trying.  If  you 
were  to  try,  dear  cousin — to  try  bravely.  I  know — that  is,  I 
am  sure " 

She  wanted  to  conceal  that  she  herself  had  had  experience  in 
such  a  trial,  and  in  the  endeavor  to  express  her  thought  with- 
out self-compromise,  her  speech  became  confused,  and  her 
words  failed  her. 

"  Ah !  Cousin  Kate,"  said  he,  "  my  lips  have  poured  into  your 
ear  this  early  grief,  because  no  true  man  making  a  venture  for 


452  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

the  woman  that  he  loves,  will  put  to  sea  under  false  colors. 
It  is  two  years  and  a  half  since  then.  I  have  been  thrown  con- 
tinually with  you,  dear  Kate.  For  two  years  past  I  have  been 
learning,  sweet,  to  love  you.  We  may  be  the  happiest  set  of 
people  in  the  world  this  night,  and  I  the  happiest  man  amongst  us 
all,  if  Cousin  Katie  whispers  what  I  want  to  hear  her  say  to  me." 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want  ?     I  cannot  tell." 

But  she  did  not  shrink  away  from  his  caress,  and  her  blushes 
did  tell  that  she  understood  his  meaning. 

The  grating  of  carriage  wheels  startled  them  both,  and  at  the 
same  moment  began  the  village  chimes. 

"  There  is  the  gleaners'  bell,"  cried  Katie,  as  they  both  flew 
to  the  gate,  "  I  forgot  one  thing.  I  should  have  liked  the 
bells  to  ring  their  welcome.  I  remember  when  papa  was  mar- 
ried, he  did  not  like  it  that  no  bells  were  rung.  This  seems,  a 
sort  of  second  wedding-day.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  them 
ring." 

"  It  is  eight  o'clock,  my'  love.  The  gleaners'  curfew  rang 
two  hours  ago,"  said  my  father,  glancing  hurriedly  at  his 
watch.  "  Some  one,  dearest,  has  anticipated  your  wish.  They 
are  ringing  a  peal." 

At  this  moment  the  carriage  turned  into  the  gate  and  stopped. 

"  Welcome — welcome  home,  dear  mother — dear  father  !" 
cried  Katie. 

Theodosius  opened  the  carriage  door.  In  another  moment 
Katie  was  inside.  Captain  Warner  was  still  very  weak,  and 
wasted  almost  to  a  shadow  ;  "  But,  oh !  mamma,  how  young  and 
well  you  look !"  was  her  first  exclamation. 

Amabel  laughed,  and  shook  her  head ;  and  said  she  sup- 
posed that  Katie  meant  to  compliment  her  Paris  bonnet — but 
the  glance  she  threw  her  husband,  plainly  showed  that  the 
secret  of  her  good  looks  was  a  heart  satisfied. 

"  Shut  the  door,  Ord,  and  get  upon  the  box.  We  will  take 
you  both  home  in  the  carriage." 

But  Katie  caught  a  glance  from  Theodosius,  and  said,  timid- 
ly, she  believed  that  they  had  better  not  drive.  I  wonder 
which  loving  pair  was  happiest  that  night,  my  father  and  my 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  453 

mother  walking  by  moonlight  to  the  house,  or  my  grandfather 
and  grandmother  in  the  carriage  ! 

Everybody  connected  wUh  the  place  was  at  his  or  her  post, 
ready  to  receive  Captain  Warner  and  his  lady.  My  father  had 
wisely  thought  it  good  policy  to  infuse  as  much  pride,  pomp, 
and  circumstance  as  possible  into  the  reception.  Amabel's  color 
was  very  high,  and  she  trembled  excessively  as  she  got  out  of 
the  carriage.  Miss  Taylor,  Horace,  and  Annie  were  on  the 
steps  to  receive  her. 

"  Come  in,  my  dear — come  in,"  said  the  former,  giving  her  a 
hearty  kiss,  and  attempting  to  drag  her  by  force  into  the  hall. 
But  Amabel  disengaged  herself,  and  going  back  to  the  carriage 
helped  her  husband  to  alight.  With  one  hand  he  took  her 
arm — in  the  other  he  held  a  stout  stick  to  support  himself. 
He  required  some  assistance  to  get  up  the  steps  of  the  hall  door. 

But  he  was  just  as  hearty  as  ever — gave  the  kindest  welcome 
to  Annie  Talbot,  and  said  more  guests  were  coming  the  next 
day — Mr.  Sibbes  and  Dr.  Glascock,  Ned  Talbot  and  John. 

Everybody  who  went  into  the  dining-room  when  dinner  was 
announced,  felt  as  if  walking  in  a  sort  of  triumphal  procession, 
escorting  her  to  the  head  of  her  own  table,  her  husband  lean- 
ing on  her  arm. 


CHAPTER  VL 

Bide  your  time  ;  one  false  step  taken 

Perils  all  you  yet  have  done  , 
Undismayed,  erect,  unshaken, 
Wait  and  -watch,  and  all  is  won. 

'Tis  not  by  a  rash  endeavor 

Men  or  states  to  greatness  climb— 
Would  you  win  your  rights  for  ever 

Calm  and  thoughtful  bide  your  time. 

WHAT  now  remains  for  me  to  write  ?  Shall  I  take  an  abrupt 
leave  of  her  sitting  at  the  head  of  her  own  table  ?  Am  I  to 
give  her  friends  to  understand  that  every  difficulty  was  sur- 


454  AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY. 

mounted — that  her  warfare  was  accomplished — that  she  had 
entered  into  rest — that  nothing  remained  for  her  but  to  enjoy  ? 

Reader,  would  yoji  believe  me  if  I  said  so  ?  Was  it  ever  so 
in  life  with  yours  or  with  you  ? 

She  found  herself  respected  in  he*  husband's  house — once 
more  protected  by  his  name,  but  this  was  only  to  place  her 
again  on  the  right  track ;  the  dangers  of  her  journey  were 
beyond. 

In  the  first  place,  now  that  she  had  learned  to  smile  or  to 
tremble  in  sympathy  with  Captain  Warner,  she  could  not  be 
quite  happy  till  her  social  standing  was  restored.  At  first  the 
captain  was  too  much  engrossed  with  the  novelty  of  his  charac- 
ter as  an  invalid — with  being  once  more  in  his  old  home,  with 
improvements  to  be  made,  and  his  family  around  him,  to  pay 
much  attention  to  the  names  in  his  wife's  card  basket,  or  to  the 
state  of  the  household's  foreign  relations.  But  Amabel  well 
knew  that  the  time  must  come,  when  her  position  in  society 
would  react  upon  her  at  home.  She  would  so  gladly  have  led  a 
retired  life  ; — would  so  thankfully  have  lived  beyond  the  echoes 
of  the  rumors  afloat  about  her,  but  my  grandfather  had  a  taste 
for  social  life — and  laid,  as  she  well  knew,  an  undue  stress  on 
the  opinions  of  society. 

She  used  to  lie  awake  at  nights  troubled  by  these  reflections. 

But  as  she  pondered  on  these  thoughts  she  heard  a  voice 
from  Heaven.  It  came  to  her  in  church  in  one  of  the  evening 
lessons — "  Gird  up  the  loins  of  your  mind — be  sober — and  hope 
to  the  end."  It  was  not  the  first  time  these  words  had  strength- 
ened and  refreshed  her.  They  showed  her  her  true  position. 

Think  not  of  rest ; — though  dreams  be  sweet, 
Start  up  and  ply  your  heavenward  feet. 

And,  like  the  weary  traveller  in  Alpine  lands,  who  sees  blue 
distant  hills,  without  apparent  path  or  possibility  of  path  across 
their  height,  swell  from  the  valley ;  yet  journeying  onward,  finds 
insensibly  that  he  has  reached  their  top  through  dells,  and 
breaks,  and  gorges ;  so  Amabel  found  many  an  apparent  diffi- 
culty remove  out  of  her  path  as  she  approached  it  boldly. 
The  very  day  after  that  Sunday,  as  she  was  driving  with  her 


AMABEL;   A  FAMILY   HISTORY.  455 

husband  in  a  low  pony  chaise,  they  met  a  certain  Mrs.  G , 

\vho  had  one  of  the  best  houses  in  the  village.  The  many 
doubts  and  difficulties  that  were  agitating  the  mind  of  his  wife 
had  never  yet  presented  themselves  to  Captain  Warner.  Public 
opinion  in  the  little  circle  .out  of  which  he  had  "not  emerged 
since  his  late  sickness,  idolized  and  extolled  her.  He  pulled  up 
his  ponies,  and  saluted  Mrs.  G with  his  usual  friendly  cor- 
diality. 

"  How  are  you,  Mrs.  G ?  Glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  G . 

Upon  my  word  I  find  you  looking  younger  than  you  did  when  I 
last  saw  you.  By  the  way,  when  are  you  coming  up  to  call 
upon  my  wife  ?  Tell  your  husband  I  want  to  see  him  at  the 
Cedars.  When  you  come,  come  up  so  as  to  have  some  lunch 
with  us.  We  want  something  more  from  you  than  a  mere 
fashionable  call." 

This  unconscious  sort  of  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  society 
about  the  Cedars  did  not  mean  to  slight  his  wife,  did  much  to 
make  her  visited. 

Every  day  he  grew  more  proud  of  her.  He  was  fond  of  tell- 
ing anecdotes  of  her,  and  quoted  "  my  wife,  sir,"  pretty  fre- 
quently. His  affection  and  admiration  for  her  were  so  genuine 
and  spontaneous  that  they  failed  not  to  react  on  other  minds. 
One  by  one  the  ladies  of  the  neighborhood  left  cards  upon  her, 
heartily  hoping,  no  doubt,  that  they  should  be  out  when  the 
visit  was  returned.  That  was  not  generally  the  case.  My 
grandmother  and  Katie  returned  all  calls  together,  and  the 
matrons  who  came  nervously  into  their  drawing-rooms  to  receive 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Warner,  were  won  by  my  grandmother's  calm,  self- 
possessed  deportment,  and  withal  by  a  certain  acknowledgment  of 
manner,  that  she  was  grateful  her  claim  to  their  acquaintance 
had  not  been  disallowed.  But  what  acted  in  her  favor  most, 
was  the  cordial  affection  evinced  for  her  in  every  look  and  tone 
by  her  step-daughter. 

For  many  years  she  continued  quietly  to  win  her  way  into 
the  houses  of  the  rich  and  the  hearts  of  the  poor.  She  was 
living  down  the  stories  once  widely  in  circulation.  She  was 
giving  persons  something  better  to  talk  of  when  they  heard  her 
name  than  stale  evil  report.  There  were  certain  things  she 


456  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

never  could  be  persuaded  to  do,  however.  Oue  was,  to  make 
her  appearance  at  the  public  balls. 

Early  in  1832,  when  my  grandfather  had  that  brief  appoint- 
ment to  a  line-of-battle  ship,  which  he  lost  after  the  passage  of 
the  Reform-  Bill,  the  cholera  appeared  upon  our  shores.  The 

principal  families  in  C fled  away  at  its  approach.  The 

town  authorities  seemed  paralysed.  The  wise  men  and  the 
councillors,  on  whom  they  were  accustomed  to  rely,  had  listened 
to  the  entreaties  of  their  families,  and  consulted  their  own 
safety.  The  medical  practitioners  still  stood  their  ground,  but 
were  worn  down  by  labor.  Everything  seemed  at  a  dead  lock 
in  the  city.  Sanitary  precautions,  then  so  little  understood, 
were  almost  entirely  neglected.  The  enemy  was  upon  us,  and 
nothing  had  been  done. 

At  this  juncture  my  grandmother  ordered  her  low  pony  chaise, 
and  drove  alone  into  the  panic-stricken  city.  On  her  arrival, 
she  proceeded  to  the  house  of  the  mayor,  whom  she  found  in 
consultation  with  a  physician  and  some  of  the  principal  trades- 
men. They  were  amazed  when  my  grandmother  walked  into 
the  midst  of  them.  I  believe  she  made  them  a  kind  of  little 
speech,  saying,  "  Gentlemen,  this  affair  concerns  us  all.  I  do 
not  live  in  your  town,  but  am  in  many  ways  connected  with  it. 
In  the  name  of  humanity  it  behoves  us  to  succor  those  who 
cannot  help  themselves.  If  we  falter  in  our  duty  at  this  crisis, 
our  own  lives  may  pay  the  penalty ;  the  pestilence  is  already 
knocking  at  our  doors." 

It  was  something  of  this  sort  that  she  said,  and  it  made  a 
great  impression.  She  then  presented  all  her  balance  at  the 
bank,  and  with  it — in  her  husband's  name — headed  a  sub- 
scription for  cleansing  and  whitewashing  the  houses  of  the 
poor,  and  distributing  proper  clothing.  Whilst  the  timid  were 
set  to  work  at  a  safe  distance  from  infection,  to  prepare  gar- 
ments and  necessaries  for  those  who  could  not  afford  to  pay  for 
them,  she  animated  many  a  sinking  heart  by  her  fearless  visits 
to  the  worst  districts  of  the  town,  to  which  she  went  in  com- 
pany with  the  landlords  of  houses,  and  sanitary  commissioners, 
•whom  the  board  at  length  appointed  to  have  whitewashing 
done,  and  to  examine  into  drainage.  While  these  gentlemen 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  457 

noted,  estimated,  and  issued  orders,  she  talked  to  the  families, 
promised  supplies  of  comforts  and  of  clothing,  strengthened  the 
weak-hearted,  and  induced  the  strong  to  put  forth  all  their 
strength  in  the  emergency.  The  sight  of  a  lady  amongst  them 
did  more  towards  establishing  confidence  than  anything  else 
whatever  would  have  done,  and  the  cholera  passed  lightly  over 
even  the  most  squalid  districts  of  our  city. 

A  few  months  after  my  grandfather  came  home,  and  stood 
for  the  borough  in  the  next  general  election.  He  laughingly 
informed  his  wife  that  he  should  not  expect  her  to  meddle  in 
his  canvas.  Yet  when  election  matters  were  discussed  before 
her,  it  proved  that  the  acquaintance  she  had  made  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  during  the  cholera,  gave  her  a 
knowledge,  not  possessed  by  any  of  the  Blue  committee,  of  a 
large  class  of  voters.  "  If  Mrs.  Warner  would  see  some  of  these 
men  !"  suggested  several  gentlemen. 

Mrs.  Warner  had  one  or  two  talks  on  the  subject  with  her 
husband,  and  at  length,  armed  with  a  simple  declaration  of  his 
principles,  which  were  moderate,  and  with  the  strongest  assur- 
ances that  if  elected  he  would  advocate  the  interests  of  the 

town,  and  protect  the  trade  in  oysters,  she  drove  over  to  C , 

and  went  to  call  on  several  of  the  principal  radical  and  doubt- 
ful voters. 

She  brought  home  two  promises  to  vote,  and  many  of  non- 
opposition.  The  poll  was  pretty  closely  contested.  The  influ- 
ence of  the  respect  felt  for  her  heroism  during  the  pestilence 
alone  carried  the  captain  into  the  House  of  Commons. 

Everybody  knew  she  was  anxious  about  the  election, 
though  after  she  had  made  her  one  day's  round  of  calls,  she 
took  no  part  in  the  canvassing.  Several  young  farmers  station- 
ed themselves  along  the  road,  determined,  when  the  result  of 
the  poll  should  be  announced,  to  bring  her  the  first  news  of  her 
husband's  election. 

The  new  M.P.  left  C the  moment  he  had  made  his  speech, 

returning  humble  and  hearty  thanks  to  his  friends  and  electors. 
Accompanied  by  a  chosen  band  of  his  committee  and  his 
friends  all  wearing  his  colors — blue  ribbon  and  oak  leaves — he 
threw  himself  on  horseback  and  gallopped  to  his  home.  No 

20 


458  AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

sooner  had  he  passed  the  bounds  of  the  parish  in  which  the 
Cedars  stands — fully  expecting  he  would  be  the  first  to  announce 
his  own  success — than  the  bells  began  ringing  in  the  village. 
At  the  park  gates  of  his  home,  he  was  met  and  cheered  by  an 
exulting  crowd,  "  God  bless  you,  Captain,"  said  many  an  honest 
voice.  "  God  bless  you  and  your  lady  !" 

Amabel  came  out  to  the  hall  door  to  meet  the  party,  dressed 
in  blue,  with  beautiful  blue  feathers  and  oak  leaves  in  her  hair. 
She  almost  always  wore  either  grey  or  black,  and  her  husband 
was  delighted  by  the  unexpected  attention. 

"  My  wife  invites  you  all  to  supper,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
getting  off  his  horse,  putting  his  arm  round  her  in  presence  of 
them  all,  and  kissing  her.  "  You  must  come  in  and  drink  her 
health.  She  is  our  best  electioneerer." 

Captain  Warner,  M.P.,  was  requested  to  be  steward  of  the 
balls  the  following  year,  when  for  the  first  time,  Amabel,  secure 
of  her  position  in  the  county,  made  her  appearance  at  the 
assembly,  with  a  large  and  brilliant  suite  she  had  invited  to 
accompany  her.  She  received  most  marked  attention  all  that 
night.  This  first  ball  to  which  she  went  was  a  sort  of  little 
triumph,  and  it  made  Captain  Warner  extremely  happy.  On 
that  occasion  also  she  wore  blue,  with  oak  leaves  on  her  dress 
and  in  her  hair.  "  Were  you  thinking,"  whispered  my  father, 
who  was  present,  "  that  in  France  the  combination  of  blue  and 
green  is  called  prejuge  vaincu  ?" 

The  coachmen  who  drove  the  London  line,  no  longer,  when 
they  pointed  out  the  Cedars  from  their  box,  told,  as  they  had 
been  used  to  tell,  of  stories  to  her  disadvantage.  Or  if  they 
alluded  to  the  reports  once  in  circulation — (and  Amabel  had 
no  right  to  expect  such  remembrances  would  altogether  die 
away) — their  mention  of  such  tales  was  brief.  They  enlarged 
on  her  heroism  during  the  cholera,  on  the  affection  and  esteem 
in  which  she  was  held  everywhere,  or  told  romantic  stories 
about  the  wreck  of  the  Alcastor. 

Mrs.  Buck,  the  housekeeper,  had  long  since  been  removed 
from  the  Cedars.  After  the  death  of  Mrs.  Warner  she  married, 
and  became  the  landlady  of  a  small  post-house  in  a  neighboring 
village.  There,  rumors  daily  reached  her,  of  the  popularity  of 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY  HISTORY.  459 

the  new  mistress  of  the  Cedars.  In  vain  Mrs.  Buck  maintained 
that  the  good  repute  in  which  she  was  now  held  was  only  ano- 
ther sign  of  the  degeneracy  of  those  who  praised  her.  Having 
moved  into  a  rival  village,  in  a  rival  county,  she  had  no  longer 
any  influence  upon  the  little  place  whose  public  opinion  she 
had  once  swayed. 

When  Parliament  opened,  my  grandfather  and  grandmother 
took  a  small  house  well  situated  in  town,  and  began  to  give  din- 
ners. My  grandfather  was  liked  in  Parliament,  and  his  wife 
had  quite  a  success  in  London  society.  Not  in  the  fashionable 
saloons  of  Pimlico  perhaps ;  but  members  of  Parliament  and 
their  wives,  eminent  lawyers,  literary  men  and  women,  fre- 
quenters of  the  Athenaeum  and  the  Traveller's,  army  and  navy 
club  men  and  their  families,  composed  the  pleasant  circle  of 
which  she  was  the  centre.  Her  conversation  was  particularly 
sought  by  men  of  sense.  The  same  power  of  sympathetic 
appreciation  which  had  captivated  my  father  in  his  youth, 
charmed  and  fascinated  men  of  renown.  She  might  have  had 
political  influence  had  she  desired  it,  but  nothing  was  further 
from  her  thoughts.  Her  intercourse  with  society  formed  a  plea- 
sant feature  in  her  life,  but  her  heart  was  in  the  vie  interieure. 

One  day  after  the  Blues  got  back  to  the  Treasury  bench,  she 
was  conversing  with  the  Chancellor.  He  told  her  that  the  minis- 
try felt  itself  indebted  for  her  husband's  seat  to  her  influence  in 
the  borough  ;  and  asked  her,  with  a  smile,  if  she  had  no  personal 
request  to  make  in  favor  of  any  friend.  My  grandmother  hesi- 
tated. Her  first  thought  was  of  my  father,  but  he  and  Ned  and 
John  were  in  a  fair  way  of  promotion ; — with  a  blush  and  a 

smile  she  asked  for  a  better. living  than  that  of  S ,  for  her 

old  friend  the  Vicar. 

Horace  Vane  went  to  Oxford,  accompanied  by  his  hard  read- 
ing tutor.  Notwithstanding  the  disadvantages  under  which  he 
worked,  he  made  pretty  sure  of  taking  honors.  My  grand- 
mother had  urged  him  to  come  down  to  the  Cedars,  and  spend 
the  vacation  that  was  to  precede  the  examination  for  his 
degree.  He  declined  her  invitation,  preferring  to  stay  and 
read  with  his  tutor  in  college. 

One  night  in  August,  she  received  an  express  written  hur- 


* 
460  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

riedly  by  the  tutor,  urging  her  to  come  at  once  to  Mr.  Vane. 
She  and  my  father,  who  was  at  the  Cedars  at  the  time, 
set  off  immediately.  On  reaching  Oxford,  they  went  at  once 
to  Horace's  silent  and  deserted  college.  His  rooms  looked 
on  the  waving  lime  trees  in  the  grand  old  grounds,  and  com- 
manded a  graceful  sweep  of  the  Isis,  winding  by  college  gar- 
dens and  their  learned  piles.  A  soft  breeze  swept  through  the 
open  casement  of  the  room  in  which  they  found  him.  He  had 
had  his  own  bedstead  moved  into  his  sitting-room,  and  lay  sur- 
rounded by  books  on  every  side.  He  was  dying  of  rapid  con- 
sumption, developed,  probably,  by  over  work,  and  aggravated 
by  want  of  prompt  attention.  He  was  too  feeble  to  converse 
mucht,.  yet  as  Amabel  sat  by  his  side  during  that  night  and  the 
next  day,  a  thousand  signs  of  affection  were  exchanged  between 
them.  They  spoke  much  of  the  happy  meeting  yet  reserved 
for  them  in  that  world  where  all  is  light.  Once  only  he 
alluded  to  the  grief  which  had  settled  down  upon  his  darkened 
life,  and  doubtless  both  directly  and  indirectly  brought  him  to 
his  end.  She  had  reproached  him  gently  for  that  too  great 
eagerness  for  college  success,  which  had  led  him  to  exert  him- 
self beyond  his  strength.  "  It  was  not  that — it  was  not  that," 
he  said,  a  sudden  spasm  shooting  across  his  face,  as  he  took 
and  pressed  her  hand,  "but  I  felt  the  necessity  of  work. 
Something  here,"  he  added,  laying  his  right  hand  on  his  heart, 
"  seemed  ever  urging  me  on." 

The  second  night  he  seemed  quite  free  from  pain.  My 
grandmother  sat  up  with  him  till  midnight,  and  with  her  good 
night  kiss  upon  his  lips  he  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  she  had  left  him. 
About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  she  was  called.  My  father, 
who  had  been  watching  with  Horace,  had  suddenly  discovered 
that  sleep  had  changed  to  death.  When,  how,  he  never  knew. 
He  died  without  a  movement — without  any  change  of  smile. 
He  left  Amabel  the  Hill  Farm,  which  she  has  let  to  Col.  Airey. 

My  father  and  mother  went  for  some  years  to  the  Mediterra- 
nean after  their  quiet  wedding.  During  the  period  of  their 
engagement,  they  kept  so  much  together,  and  my  grandfather 
and  grandmother  newly  reunited,  were  so  all-sufficient  to  each 
other,  that  Miss  Taylor,  Dr.  Glascock,  and  Annie  Talbot  were 


AMABEL;   A   FAMILY   HISTORY.  461 

left  to  amuse  themselves.  The  old  man  took  a  great  fancy  to 
the  latter.  Cynic  as  he  was,  he  always  wanted  some  young  girl 
to  whom  he  might  attach  himself.  By  and  by,  for  he  never 
could  do  anything  straightforward,  he  succeeded  in  alarming 
Miss  Taylor  on  the  subject  of  her  health — she  was  always  pre- 
disposed to  hypochondria — and  after  persuading  her  to  try  the 
air  of  Malta,  it  was  an  easy  task  to  induce  her  to  take  Annie. 
They  occupied  rooms  in  his  house  in  Floriana,  went  with  him 
in  summer  to  Ramalah,  and  Annie  was  the  Amabel  of  former 
days. 

After  a  year  or  two,  to  the  Doctor's  great  annoyance  and 
regret,  Annie  married  a  Lieut.  Col.  Airey.  The  match  has 
proved  a  very  happy  one. 

The  Doctor  is  living  at  present  at  the  Hill  Farm  with  the 
Aireys. 

They  have  three  pretty  daughters,  and  Thomasine,  the  second 
one,  is  his  acknowledged  heir.  He  will  be  upwards  of  a  hun- 
dred if  he  lives  to  see  the  marriage  of  this  pet ;  but  she  comes 
less  often  than  her  sisters  to  the  Cedars,  he  being  very  particu- 
lar she  should  visit  there  only  in  the  absence  of  her  boy- 
cousins. 

Amabels  abound  in  the  new  generation ;  and  as  my  grand- 
father and  grandmother  prefer  keeping  for  their  own  sole  use 
Belle,  Bella,  Amabel,  and  Leonard,  we  have  been  much  puzzled 
to  invent  other  abbreviations  for  the  favorite  name. 

My  mother  would  not  call  me  Amabel,  much  as  I  know  she 
wished  it  in  her  heart,  thinking  it  a  proper  compliment  to  the 
memory  of  her  own  mother  to  give  her  name  to  her  eldest 
child. 

My  story  has  described  a  circle.  In  the  Introduction  I  told 
of  my  first  arrival  at  the  Cedars,  the  happy  group  of  children 
who  hung  around  my  grandfather,  and  the  reverential  affection 
we  all  bore  to  grandmamma. 

Four  younger  Amabels  grew  up  under  the  shade  of  our  old 
Cedars.  Ella  Ord,  Mab  Warner,  Mabel  Airey,  and  Amabel 
Bevis,  to  whom,  on  account  of  her  quarrelsome  disposition,  the 
boys  assigned  the  name  of  Bcllona.  I  always  thought  it  \va:i 
rather  a  piece  of  impertinence  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Bevis  so  to 


462  AMABEL;    A   FAMILY   HISTORY. 

name  her  daughter.  Our  grandmother,  herself,  did  not  regard 
it  in  that  light,  but  readily  accepted  the  trust  of  bringing  up 
Olivia's  two  children  who  were  sent  home  to  her  from  India. 
Under  her  management  they  turned  out  well ;  especially 
Bellona. 

As  I  sat  beside  my  grandmother  in  church,  last  Sunday, 
thinking  more  than  I  ought  to  have  been  thinking  at  such  a 
time,  of  the  things  that  are  written  in  these  volumes,  I  was 
struck  with  the  look  of  motherly  pride  with  which,  from  time 
to  time,  she  glanced  up  at  the  sou  who  was  with  her  in  the 
pew — her  handsome  young  collegian.  He  is  taller  than  his 
father,  with  a  sunny  open  brow  ;  just  the  fellow  to  deserve  and 
to  secure  a  mother's  strongest  interest  and  affection.  But  I 
noticed  that  while  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Leo5  they  suddenly 
rilled  as  they  turned  from  his  bright  handsome  face  to  a 
plain  white  marble  slab,  let  into  the  church  wall  over  the  place 
where  she  was  sitting. 

.Sami  to  t\)t  ^fclrmors  of 

LEONARD, 

Infant  Son  of  Captain  LEONARD  WARNER,  R.  N.,  and  of 
/  AMABEL,  his  wife ; 

Who  died,  A'otember  27,  1817, 

la  THK  PARISH  OF  SELBOCKSE,  HANTS; 

Aged  one  month  and  eighteen  days. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

The  mellowed  reflex  of  a  winter  moon, 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer  light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother: 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite. 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen  quite, 
With  clustered  flower  bells  and  ambrosial  orbs 

Of  rich  fruit  bunches  leaning  on  each  other, 
Shadow  forth  thee.  TE.NNTSO.N.— Isabel. 

MY  pleasant  task  is  over.     I  shall  no  longer,  day  by  day,  sit 
down  to  write  this  story.     The  last  proof-sheet  has  been  com- 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTORY.  463 

mitted  to  the  post-office.  I  am  feeling  the  reaction  consequent 
upon  the  sudden  cessation  of  exciting  labor.  I  am  in  a  frenzy 
of  energetic  nervousness.  I  want  to  finish  everything.  A 
thousand  of  those  things  undone  that  ought  to  have  been  done, 
that  ever  accumulate  around  a  woman  of  the  pen,  stare  my 
conscience  in  the  face,  and  demand  my  immediate  attention. 
Meantime  I  am  in  a  sad  reactionary  mood,  with  the  apprehen- 
sion weighing  on  my  heart  that  my  little  book,  which  has  cost 
me  so  much  pains — has  been  so  dear  to  me — has  so  many 
associations — and  from  time  to  time  has  been  the  pedestal  of 
an  airy  figure 

That  Speranza  hight, 

— clad  in  a  blue  robe  leaning  on  an  anchor,  will  not  be  pro- 
bably successful.  What  am  I,  that  men  amidst  the  shock  and 
tumult  of  the  terrible  realities  of  life  should  pause  and  listen  to 
my  still  small  voice  piping  an  obscure  experience  ?  Who  am 
1.  that  in  the  midst  of  the  fashionable  Regent  street  of  life, 
gay  women  should  spare  time  to  buy  my  posies ;  for,  though 
pretty  when  the  dew  was  on  their  leaves  at  early  dawn,  the 
flowers  that  I  offer  have  faded  in  the  gathering  ? 

I  am  sitting  on  the  cushioned  window-seat  of  the  dining 
room.  The  room  is  lined  with  oak ;  the  dark  shade  of  the 
cedar  tree,  that  grows  beside  the  window,  throws  solemn  sha- 
dows into  the  room. 

My  grandmother  comes  up  to  me  to  comfort  me. 

"  What,  Lily !  crying,  dear  I" 

She  has  drawn  me  up  into  her  morning  room,  guessing,  I 
doubt  not,  exactly  how  I  feel,  and  begs  that  I  will  read  aloud 
to  her.  I  have  taken  up  a  handsomely  bound  book  which  Leo 
has  brought  home.  It  is  a  volume  of  Alfred  Tennyson;  a 
poet  with  whose  writings  the  rising  generation  in  this  house  is 
much  more  on  every-day  familiar  terms  than  its  elders.  She 
draws  out  her  embroidery  frame,  and  makes  me  sit  beside  her 
on  her  sofa. 

As  I  watch  her,  calm,  silent,  industrious,  and  self-possessed, 
it  is  difficult  to  connect  her  with  the  events  of  her  own  life. 
As  difficult  as  it  is  to  connect  a  granite  rock  with  the  idea  of 
molten  lava. 


464  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY. 

I  avoid  the  "  Lilians,"  the  "  Adelines,"  and  "  Claribels"  of 
my  book,  well  knowing  that  the  affected  language  of  those 
poems  will  be  more  likely  to  strike  a  matron  of  her  age  than 
the  picturesque  effect  of  their  word-painting ;  but  I  read  her 
"  Isabel,"  the  poem  from  which  the  motto  of  this  chapter  has 
been  taken — a  poem  I  can  never  read  without  associating  it 
with  her. 

Evidently  she  does  not  recognise  the  picture  as  her  likeness. 
Nor  does  the  poem  greatly  strike  her.  But  as  I  read  it,  won- 
dering what  effect  it  will  produce,  a  thousand  reflections  crowd 
into  my  mind.  Has  her  married  life  been  one  of  happiness  ? 

So  circled  lives  she  in  love's  holy  light, — 

I  cannot  doubt  she  has  been  happy.  Her  Christian  love — the 
fountain  of  that  lovingness  that  waters  her  whole  life,  has  made 
all  round  her  green,  and  fresh,  and  fertile  with  fresh  growths 
of  human  tenderness  and  love.  True  that  there  may  be — there 
must  have  been  in  her  tastes,  feelings,  and  interests  unappre- 
ciated by  her  husband.  She  is  to  him  what  books  of  holy  lore 
are  to  the  neophite — a  treasury  of  undeveloped  beauties — a 
mine  which  grows  more  rich  the  deeper  that  you  sink  your 
shaft — a  well  that  never  fails  in  its  supply. 

She  loves  him.  Deeply,  truly,  reverentially.  The  affinities 
that  unite  them  are  not  of  the  intellect,  but  of  the  heart.  The 
sorrows  of  her  early  life — her  long  yearning  for  reunion — the 
dangers  she  has  braved  to  bring  him  back  from  the  dark  bor- 
ders of  the  grave — her  sense  of  the  reparation  that  is  due  to 
him — her  admiration  for  his  frank,  forgiving  generosity,  makes 
an  equality  between  them  that,  perhaps,  would  not  always  have 
existed  had  these  things  never  occurred.  They  are  constantly 
together.  In  everything  of  one  mind.  She  thoroughly  under- 
stands his  character — he  appreciates  without  thoroughly  under- 
standing the  varied  excellence  of  hers.  She  is  to  him,  indeed, 

The  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite 
Clothiug  the  stem. 

His  interests  are  hers.    I  never  knew  another  instance  in' which 


AMABEL;    A    FAMILY   HISTOKV.  465 

in  all  that  concerns  the  outward  life,  husband  and  wife  seemed 
so  completely  to  be  one.  And  if  she  walks  apart  from  him 
sometimes  in  higher  realms  of  thought,  she  brings  back  with 
her  so  many  graceful  fancies,  pleasant  truths,  and  practical 
suggestions  to  beautify  the  life  they  share  together,  that  her 
husband  only  the  more  adores  and  acknowledges  an  excellence 
which  gladdens  and  adorns  the  common  things  of  life — giving 
her  richly  all  things  to  enjoy,  and  the  power  of  multiplying 
Heaven's  gifts  bestowed  upon  herself  by  sharing  them  with 
others. 

Finding  that  she  did  not  enter,  as  I  had  hoped,  into  the  spirit 
of  "  Isabel,"  I  turned  over  the  leaves  of  my  book  and  read  her 
"  The  Miller's  Daughter."  The  touching  sweetness  and  simpli- 
city of  that  most  lovely  ballad  seemed  to  produce  on  her  a 
much  greater  impression. 

Her  needle  stayed  suspended  as  I  read — tears  trembled  in  her 
eyes.  I  was  so  interested  in  the  poem  and  in  watching  its 
effect,  that  I  did  not  observe  I  had  another  auditor.  My  grand- 
father had  stolen  in  behind  the  sofa.  "  Read  that  again,  Lily,'' 
said  he,  "  read  that  again." 

As  I  read  the  last  verses  over  again,  emphasizing  them  slowly, 
he  came  and  sat  down  by  his  wife's  side,  and  put  his  arm  around 
her. 

The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort  I  have  found  in  thee. 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear — who  wrought 

Two  spirits  to  oue  equal  mind — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 
With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

He  murmured  these  words  slowly  to  himself,  then  dropped  into 
my  lap  a  foreign  letter. 

"  Let  us  hear  how  Captain  Ned  is  getting  on.  Read  it  out, 
Lil,"  said  he. 

"  For  shame — for  shame,"  exclaimed  my  grandmother,  smiling. 
"  The  letter  is  from  you  know  who,  my  dear.  How  should  you 
have  liked  to  have  your  love-letters  read  out  when  you  were 
young  1" 


466  AMABEL;    A    FAMILY    HISTORY. 

% 

"  As  to  my  love-letters,  my  dear,"  said  my  grandfather,  with 
the  tone  of  a  man  who  dares  to  play  with  a  grief  that  has  long 
lost  its  sting,  "  we  had  been  married  seven  years  before  you 
ever  wrote  me  one.  And  as  to  being  a  young  man — who  says 
that  I  am  not  young  ?" 

And  young  he  was.  Those  happy,  kindly,  genial  men  who 
have  taken  in  their  early  days  the  rough  and  tumble  of  a  salt 
water  life,  often  seem,  as  they  advance  in  years,  to  grow 
younger  instead  of  older. 

"Oh!  there  is  such  good  news,"  I  cried.  "Such  good — 
good  news  in  my  letter.  Papa  and  Ned  are  both  on  their  way 
home." 

"  And  what  else  does  Captain  Edward  Talbot  say  ?  What 
more  does  he  intend  to  do  when  he  comes  home  ?"  asked 
my  grandfather,  with  a  meaning  look  at  me  and  at  my  grand- 
mother. 

"  Nothing  particular,"  I  answered,  with  a  blush. 

My  grandfather  was  standing  on  the  rug  before  the  hearth, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  in  any  room  in  his  own  house  is 
chief  authority,  cutting  a  ball  of  his  wife's  worsted  with  her 
scissors,  and  whistling  "  Come  haste  to  the  wedding,"  with  his 
back  to  the  fire. 


THE     END. 


°°°  033  309 


I 


